This time Jed made no reply; but he, too, leaned forward and his gaze was fixed upon the hardware dealer’s face.  There was an expression upon his own face which, when Phineas saw it, caused the latter to chuckle once more.

“He, he!” he laughed.  “What’s the matter, Shavin’s?  You look kind of scared about somethin’.  ’Tain’t possible you’ve known all along what I’ve just found out?  I wonder if you have.  Have you?”

Still Jed was silent.  Babbit grunted.

“It don’t make any difference whether you have or not,” he said.  “But if you ain’t I wonder what makes you look so scared.  There’s nothin’ to be scared about, as I see.  I’m just cal’latin’ to do our dear old chummie, Cap’n Sam, a kindness, that’s all.  He’s lost some money up there to the bank, I understand.  Some says it’s four thousand dollars and some says it’s forty.  It don’t make any difference, that part don’t.  Whatever ‘tis it’s missin’ and I’m going to tell him where to find it.  That’s real good of me, ain’t it?  Ain’t it, Shavin’s; eh?”

The little man’s malignant spite and evident triumph were actually frightening.  And it was quite evident that Jed was frightened.  Yet he made an effort not to appear so.

“Yes,” he agreed.  “Yes, yes, seems ’s if ’twas.  Er—­er—­ Where is it, Phin?”

Phineas burst out laughing. “‘Where is it, Phin?’” he repeated, mockingly.  “By godfreys mighty, I believe you do know where ’tis, Shavin’s!  You ain’t gettin’ any of it, are you?  You ain’t dividin’ up with the blasted jailbird?”

Jed was very pale.  His voice shook as he essayed to speak.

“Wh-what jailbird?” he faltered.  “What do you mean?  What—­what are you talkin’ about, Phin?”

“‘What are you talkin’ about, Phin?’ God sakes, hear him, will you!  All right, I’ll tell you what I’m talkin’ about.  I’m talkin’ about Sam Hunniwell’s pet, his new bookkeeper up there to the bank.  I’m talkin’ about that stuck-up, thievin’ hypocrite of a Charlie Phillips, that’s who I’m talkin’ about.  I called him a jailbird, didn’t I?  Well, he is.  He’s served his term in the Connecticut State’s prison for stealin’.  And I know it.”

Jed groaned aloud.  Here it was at last.  The single hair had parted and the sword had fallen.  And now, of all times, now!  He made a pitiful attempt at denial.

“It ain’t so,” he protested.

“Oh, yes, it is so.  Six or eight weeks ago—­in January ’twas—­ there was a drummer in my store sellin’ a line of tools and he was lookin’ out of the window when this Phillips cuss went by with Maud Hunniwell, both of ’em struttin’ along as if common folks, honest folks, was dirt under their feet.  And when this drummer see ’em he swore right out loud.  ‘Why,’ says he, ’that’s Charlie Phillips, of Middleford, ain’t it?’ ’His name’s Phillips and he comes from Connecticut somewheres,’ says I.  ’I thought he was in state’s prison,’ says