Barthwick.  Excellent.  Will you have a glass of [he glances at the waning port]—­er—­sherry-[pours out sherry].  Jack, just give Mr. Snow this.

     [Jack rises and gives the glass to snow; then, lolling in his
     chair, regards him indolently.]

Snow. [Drinking off wine and putting down the glass.] After seeing you I went round to this woman’s lodgings, sir.  It’s a low neighborhood, and I thought it as well to place a constable below —­and not without ’e was wanted, as things turned out.

Barthwick.  Indeed!

Snow.  Yes, Sir, I ’ad some trouble.  I asked her to account for the presence of the article.  She could give me no answer, except to deny the theft; so I took her into custody; then her husband came for me, so I was obliged to take him, too, for assault.  He was very violent on the way to the station—­very violent—­threatened you and your son, and altogether he was a handful, I can till you.

Mrs. Barthwick.  What a ruffian he must be!

Snow.  Yes, ma’am, a rough customer.

Jack. [Sipping his mine, bemused.] Punch the beggar’s head.

Snow.  Given to drink, as I understand, sir.

Mrs. Barthwick.  It’s to be hoped he will get a severe punishment.

Snow.  The odd thing is, sir, that he persists in sayin’ he took the box himself.

Barthwick.  Took the box himself! [He smiles.] What does he think to gain by that?

Snow.  He says the young gentleman was intoxicated last night

     [Jack stops the cracking of a nut, and looks at snow.]

     [Barthwick, losing his smile, has put his wine-glass down;
     there is a silence—­snow, looking from face to face, remarks]

—­took him into the house and gave him whisky; and under the influence of an empty stomach the man says he took the box.

Mrs. Barthwick.  The impudent wretch!

Barthwick.  D’ you mean that he—­er—­intends to put this forward to-morrow?

Snow.  That’ll be his line, sir; but whether he’s endeavouring to shield his wife, or whether [he looks at Jack] there’s something in it, will be for the magistrate to say.

Mrs. Barthwick. [Haughtily.] Something in what?  I don’t understand you.  As if my son would bring a man like that into the house!

Barthwick. [From the fireplace, with an effort to be calm.] My son can speak for himself, no doubt.  Well, Jack, what do you say?

Mrs. Barthwick. [Sharply.] What does he say?  Why, of course, he says the whole story’s stuff!

Jack. [Embarrassed.] Well, of course, I—­of course, I don’t know anything about it.

Mrs. Barthwick.  I should think not, indeed! [To Snow.] The man is an audacious ruffian!