“That will do,” I said.  “We really must go.”

Without paying the least attention to me, Mrs. Yolland took another dive into the rubbish, and came up out of it, this time, with a dog-chain.

“Weigh it in your hand, sir,” she said to the Sergeant.  “We had three of these; and Rosanna has taken two of them.  ’What can you want, my dear, with a couple of dog’s chains?’ says I.  ’If I join them together they’ll do round my box nicely,’ says she.  ‘Rope’s cheapest,’ says I.  ’Chain’s surest,’ says she.  ‘Who ever heard of a box corded with chain,’ says I.  ‘Oh, Mrs. Yolland, don’t make objections!’ says she; ’let me have my chains!’ A strange girl, Mr. Cuff—­good as gold, and kinder than a sister to my Lucy—­but always a little strange.  There!  I humoured her.  Three and sixpence.  On the word of an honest woman, three and sixpence, Mr. Cuff!”

“Each?” says the Sergeant.

“Both together!” says Mrs. Yolland.  “Three and sixpence for the two.”

“Given away, ma’am,” says the Sergeant, shaking his head.  “Clean given away!”

“There’s the money,” says Mrs. Yolland, getting back sideways to the little heap of silver on the table, as if it drew her in spite of herself.  “The tin case and the dog chains were all she bought, and all she took away.  One and ninepence and three and sixpence—­total, five and three.  With my love and respects—­and I can’t find it in my conscience to take a poor girl’s savings, when she may want them herself.”

“I can’t find it in my conscience, ma’am, to give the money back,” says Sergeant Cuff.  “You have as good as made her a present of the things—­you have indeed.”

“Is that your sincere opinion, sir?” says Mrs. Yolland brightening up wonderfully.

“There can’t be a doubt about it,” answered the Sergeant.  “Ask Mr. Betteredge.”

It was no use asking me.  All they got out of me was, “Good-night.”

“Bother the money!” says Mrs. Yolland.  With these words, she appeared to lose all command over herself; and, making a sudden snatch at the heap of silver, put it back, holus-bolus, in her pocket.  “It upsets one’s temper, it does, to see it lying there, and nobody taking it,” cries this unreasonable woman, sitting down with a thump, and looking at Sergeant Cuff, as much as to say, “It’s in my pocket again now—­get it out if you can!”

This time, I not only went to the door, but went fairly out on the road back.  Explain it how you may, I felt as if one or both of them had mortally offended me.  Before I had taken three steps down the village, I heard the Sergeant behind me.

“Thank you for your introduction, Mr. Betteredge,” he said.  “I am indebted to the fisherman’s wife for an entirely new sensation.  Mrs. Yolland has puzzled me.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to have given him a sharp answer, for no better reason than this—­that I was out of temper with him, because I was out of temper with myself.  But when he owned to being puzzled, a comforting doubt crossed my mind whether any great harm had been done after all.  I waited in discreet silence to hear more.