“No,” replied ’Beida; “I can’t think. . . .  But I reckon ’twould be something pretty mean.  Oh, I’m sick an’ tired of the gentry!—­if you call yourself gentry.  First of all you turn Father an’ Mother out to find a new home.  An’ then, as if that wasn’ enough, you must come nosin’ in after Mr Nanjivell’s small savin’s. . . .  Gentry!” she swung round upon Builder Gilbert.  “Here, Mr Gilbert, you’re neither gentry nor perlice.  When I tell you about Miss Charity Oliver, that calls herself a lady!  What must she do but, happenin’ on ’Biades—­ that’s my younger brother, an’ scarce turned four—­outside o’ Mrs Pengelly’s, with a bit of gold money in his hand that Mr Nanjivell gave to him in a moment o’ weakness,—­what must she do (an’ callin’ herself a lady, no doubt, all the while) but palm off two bright coppers on him for a swap? . . .  That’s a fact,” ’Beida wound up, dabbing the towel gently, but with an appearance of force, against Nicky-Nan’s temple, “for I got it out o’ the child’s own mouth, an’ work enough it was.  That’s your gentry!”

“Hey?” Nicky-Nan pushed her hand aside.  “What’s this you’re tellin’, now?”

“Ask him!” she answered, nodding towards Mr Pamphlett.  “He knows all about it, an’ ’tis no use for him to pretend he don’t.”

“Me give your small brother—?” began Nicky, but broke off with a groan and felt his brow again.  “Oh, where’s the head or tail to this?  Where’s the sense? . . .  Give me my money—­that’s all I ask.  Stop talkin’ all of ‘ee, an’ fetch me what you’ve stole, between ’ee, an’ leave me alone!”

Mr Pamphlett shifted his ground.  “You’re right, Nanjivell.  What’s become of your money?—­that’s the main point, eh?”

“O’ course ’tis the main point,” growled Nicky.  “Though I’m damned if I see how it consarns you.”

“Maybe I can enlighten you by-and-by.  For the present you want to know what has become of the money:  and I’ve a strong suspicion this child can tell us, if she chooses to confess.  If not—­” he raised a minatory forefinger and shook it at ’Beida—­“well, it’s fortunate I brought the constable, who will know how to act.”

“Will I?” said Rat-it-all, scratching his head.

“No, you won’t,” ’Beida answered him stoutly, and turned again to Nicky-Nan.

“Mr Nanjivell,” she pleaded, “tell me—­didn’t you find these three turnin’ your room inside out?”

“’Course I did.”  Nicky-Nan cast a malignant glance around.

“Was they doin’ it with your leave?”

“‘Course they wasn’t.  Why, look at the state o’ my head!”

“You cut it yourself, fallin’ against the scurtin’-board by the cupboard,” put in Builder Gilbert.

’Beida noted his nervousness.

“You say so!” she rapped on him.  “Maybe when Mr Nanjivell has you up before Squire Tresawna, you’ll all swear to it in league.”  Again she turned to Nicky.  “Struck your head, did you?—­fallin’ against the cupboard, when they was huntin’ for your money:  which they can’t deny.  Did you want Mr Pamphlett to find your money?”