He had paced the main street twice and had turned into a narrow lane ending in the smallest of gardens and the most infinitesimal of houses, when the door of this same house opened and a man came out whose appearance held him speechless for a moment—­then sent him forward with a quickly beating heart.  It was not the man himself that produced this somewhat startling effect; it was his clothes.  So far as his hat and nether garments went, they were, if not tattered, not very far from it; but the coat he wore was not only trim but made of the finest cloth and without the smallest sign of wear.  It was so conspicuously fine, and looked so grotesquely out of place on the man wearing it, that he could pass no one without rousing curiosity, and he probably had all he wanted to do for the next few days in explaining how a fine gentleman’s coat had fallen to his lot.

But to Sweetwater its interest lay in something more important than the amusing incongruity it offered to the eye.  It looked exactly like the one belonging to Mr. Roberts which had escaped his scrutiny in so remarkable a way.  Should it prove to be that same, how fortunate he was to have it brought thus easily within his reach and under circumstances so natural it was not necessary for him to think twice how best to take advantage of them.

Father Dobbins—­for that is the name by which this old codger was known to the boys—­was, as might be expected, very proud of his new acquisition and quite blind to the contrast it offered to his fringed-out trouser-legs.  He had a smile on his face which broadened as he caught Sweetwater’s sympathetic glance.

“Fine day,” he mumbled.  “Are ye wantin’ somethin’ of me that ye’re comin’ this way?”

“Perhaps and perhaps,” answered Sweetwater, “—­if that fine coat I see you wearing is the one given you by Mrs. Weston up the road.”

“’Deed, sir, and what’s amiss?  She gave it to me, yes.  Came all the way into the village to find me and give it to me.  Too small for her master, she said; and would I take it to oblige him.  Does she want it back?”

“Oh, no—­not she.  She’s not that kind.  It’s only that she has since remembered that one of the pockets has a hole in it—­an inside one, I believe.  She’s afraid it might lose you a dime some day.  Will you let me see if she is right?  If so, I was to take you to the tailor’s and have it fixed immediately.  I am to pay for it.”

The old man stared in slow comprehension; then with the deliberation which evidently marked all his movements, he slowly put down his basket.

“I warrant ye it’s all right,” he said.  “But look, an ye will.  I don’t want to lose no dimes.”

Sweetwater threw back one side of the coat, then the other, felt in the pockets and smiled.  But Gryce, and not ignorant Father Dobbins, should have seen that smile.  There was comedy in it, and there was the deepest tragedy also; for the marks of stitches forcibly cut were to be seen under one of the pockets—­stitches which must have held something as narrow as an umbrella-band and no longer than the little strip at which Mr. Gryce had been looking one night in a melancholy little short of prophetic.