But, although she had heard him, it happened that Mrs Polsue’s mind was working on a widely divergent scent.  She also was preoccupied with something that haunted her memory:  a paragraph in that morning’s newspaper.  She, too, had no present intention of unveiling her surmise.

“Nonsense!” she said.  “Folks don’t happen on buried treasure in Polpier; and you can’t have a legacy without its getting into the papers.”

Mr Latter had no sooner departed than she put on her bonnet and paid a call on her friend Miss Charity Oliver.

“If Mr Pamphlett were only a magistrate—­” said Mrs Polsue, after telling her story.  “He was as good as promised it before the Unionists went out of office, as his services to the party well deserved. This Government appoints none but its own creatures. . . .  And Squire Tresawna living three miles away—­with the chance, when you get there, of finding he’s not at home—­”

“You might send him a letter,” suggested Miss Oliver.

“One has to be very careful what one puts down on paper,” said Mrs Polsue.  “I don’t want to compromise myself unnecessarily, even for the sake of my country.  A personal interview is always more advisable . . .  But, apart from the distance, I don’t fancy the idea of consulting the Squire.  He dislikes hearing ill of anybody.  Oh, I quite agree!—­If he takes that line, he has no business on the Bench.  What else is a magistrate for?”

“Well, dear, I don’t know much about the law.  But I’ve heard it laid down as a rule that every man is supposed to be innocent until you prove that he’s guilty—­”

“And I never could understand why,” Mrs Polsue interjected; “seeing that five out of every six persons charged are found guilty.  To my mind the law would be more sensible if it learnt by experience and took some account of the odds.”

“There’s a good deal to be said for that, no doubt,” Miss Oliver agreed.  “But the Squire—­or any other magistrate, for that matter—­ will look on the law as it stands; and if you are going to lay information against Nicholas Nanjivell—­”

“Who said I wanted to lay information?  Why should any private person undertake such unpleasantness, when it’s the plain duty of the police, and in fact what they’re paid for.”

“Then why not leave it to Rat-it-all?”

“I believe I will, after giving him a hint. . . .  But you don’t seem to see, Charity Oliver!” her friend exploded.  “What you are arguing may do well enough for ordinary times.  These are not ordinary times.  With all the newspapers declaring that our country is riddled with German spies—­positively riddled—­”

“I don’t believe the man’s capable of it, even if he had the will.”

“Then, perhaps, if you’re so clever, you’ll suggest a likelier explanation?”

“He may have won the money in a lottery,” Miss Oliver suggested brightly.  “One of those Hamburg affairs—­if you insist that the money’s German.”