“Certainly.  And of course he didn’t care.  They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and charge it on him, and he went blustering over there and did it.  Goodson looked him over, like as if he was hunting for a place on him that he could despise the most; then he says, ’So you are the Committee of Inquiry, are you?’ Sawlsberry said that was about what he was.  ’H’m.  Do they require particulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general answer will do?’ ’If they require particulars, I will come back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general answer first.’  ’Very well, then, tell them to go to hell—­I reckon that’s general enough.  And I’ll give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry what is left of yourself home in.’”

“Just like Goodson; it’s got all the marks.  He had only one vanity; he thought he could give advice better than any other person.”

“It settled the business, and saved us, Mary.  The subject was dropped.”

“Bless you, I’m not doubting that.”

Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again, with strong interest.  Soon the conversation began to suffer breaks—­interruptions caused by absorbed thinkings.  The breaks grew more and more frequent.  At last Richards lost himself wholly in thought.  He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor, and by-and-by he began to punctuate his thoughts with little nervous movements of his hands that seemed to indicate vexation.  Meantime his wife too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her movements were beginning to show a troubled discomfort.  Finally Richards got up and strode aimlessly about the room, ploughing his hands through his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was having a bad dream.  Then he seemed to arrive at a definite purpose; and without a word he put on his hat and passed quickly out of the house.  His wife sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem to be aware that she was alone.  Now and then she murmured, “Lead us not into t . . . but—­but—­we are so poor, so poor! . . .  Lead us not into . . .  Ah, who would be hurt by it?—­and no one would ever know . . .  Lead us . . . " The voice died out in mumblings.  After a little she glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-glad way—­

“He is gone!  But, oh dear, he may be too late—­too late . . .  Maybe not—­maybe there is still time.”  She rose and stood thinking, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands.  A slight shudder shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry throat, “God forgive me—­it’s awful to think such things—­but . . .  Lord, how we are made—­how strangely we are made!”

She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily over and knelt down by the sack and felt of its ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lovingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old eyes.  She fell into fits of absence; and came half out of them at times to mutter “If we had only waited!—­oh, if we had only waited a little, and not been in such a hurry!”