The old man sank weeping on a chair.  He was too broken, too exhausted, to revile Bessie any more.

‘Yo tell her, Muster Saunders,’ he said, ’to gie it me back!  I’ll not ast for all on it, but some on it, Muster Saunders—­some on it.  She can’t a spent it.  She must a got it somewhere.  Yo speak to her, Muster Saunders.  It’s a crule thing to rob an old man like me—­an her own mother’s brother.  Yo speak to ‘er—­an yo, too, Mary Anne.’

He looked piteously from one to the other.  But his misery only seemed to goad Bessie to fresh fury.  She turned upon him, arms akimbo.

’Oh! an of course it must be me as robs yer!  It couldn’t be nobody else, could it?  There isn’t tramps an thieves, an rogues—­’undreds of ‘em—­going about o’ nights?  Nary one, I believe yer!  There isn’t another thief in Clinton Magna, nobbut Bessie Costrell, is ther?  But yer’ll not blackguard me for nothin, I can tell yer.  Now will yer jest oblige me by takin yourselves off?  I shall ’ave to clean up after yer’—­she pointed scornfully to the marks of their muddy boots on the floor—­’an it’s gettin late.’

‘One moment, Mrs. Costrell,’ said Saunders, gently rubbing his hands.  ’With your leave, John and I ull just inspeck the cupboard hup stairs before leavin—­an then we’ll clear out double-quick.  But we’ll ’ave one try if we can’t ’it on somethin as ull show ’ow the thief got in—­with your leave, of coorse.’

Bessie hesitated; then she threw some spoons she held into the water beside her with a violent gesture.

‘Go where yer wants,’ she said, and returned to her washing.

Saunders began to climb the narrow stairs, with John behind him.  But the smith’s small eyes had a puzzled look.

‘There’s somethin rum,’ he said to himself.  ’Ow did she spend it all?  ’As she been carryin on with someone be’ind Isaac’s back, or is Isaac in it too?  It’s one or t’other.’

Meanwhile Bessie, left behind, was consumed by a passionate effort of memory. What had she done with the key, the night before, after she had locked the cupboard?  Her brain was blurred.  The blow—­the fall—­ seemed to have confused even the remembrance of the scene with Timothy.  How was it, for instance, that she had put the box back in the wrong place?  She put her hand to her head, trying in an anguish to recollect the exact details.

The little widow sat meanwhile a few yards away, her thin hands clasped on her lap in her usual attitude of humble entreaty; her soft grey eyes, brimmed with tears, were fixed on Bessie.  Bessie did not know that she was there—­that she existed.

The door had closed after the two men.  Bessie could hear vague movements, but nothing more.  Presently she could bear it no longer.  She went to the door and opened it.

She was just in time.  By the light of the bit of candle that John held, she saw Saunders sitting on the stair, the shadow of his huge frame thrown back on the white wall; she saw him stoop suddenly, as a bird pounces; she heard an exclamation—­then a sound of metal.