Mr. Povey felt relief.

“Oh, Cyril!” whimpered Constance.

“Give it your mother,” said Mr. Povey.

The boy stepped forward awkwardly, and Constance, weeping, took the coin.

“Please look at it, mother,” said Mr. Povey.  “And tell me if there’s a cross marked on it.”

Constance’s tears blurred the coin.  She had to wipe her eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered faintly.  “There’s something on it.”

“I thought so,” said Mr. Povey.  “Where did you steal it from?” he demanded.

“Out of the till,” answered Cyril.

“Have you ever stolen anything out of the till before?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what.”

“Yes, father.”

“Take your hands out of your pockets and stand up straight, if you can.  How often?”

“I—­I don’t know, father.”

“I blame myself,” said Mr. Povey, frankly.  “I blame myself.  The till ought always to be locked.  All tills ought always to be locked.  But we felt we could trust the assistants.  If anybody had told me that I ought not to trust you, if anybody had told me that my own son would be the thief, I should have—­well, I don’t know what I should have said!”

Mr. Povey was quite justified in blaming himself.  The fact was that the functioning of that till was a patriarchal survival, which he ought to have revolutionized, but which it had never occurred to him to revolutionize, so accustomed to it was he.  In the time of John Baines, the till, with its three bowls, two for silver and one for copper (gold had never been put into it), was invariably unlocked.  The person in charge of the shop took change from it for the assistants, or temporarily authorized an assistant to do so.  Gold was kept in a small linen bag in a locked drawer of the desk.  The contents of the till were never checked by any system of book-keeping, as there was no system of book-keeping; when all transactions, whether in payment or receipt, are in cash —­the Baineses never owed a penny save the quarterly wholesale accounts, which were discharged instantly to the travellers—­a system of book-keeping is not indispensable.  The till was situate immediately at the entrance to the shop from the house; it was in the darkest part of the shop, and the unfortunate Cyril had to pass it every day on his way to school.  The thing was a perfect device for the manufacture of young criminals.

“And how have you been spending this money?” Mr. Povey inquired.

Cyril’s hands slipped into his pockets again.  Then, noticing the lapse, he dragged them out.

“Sweets,” said he.

“Anything else?”

“Sweets and things.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Povey.  “Well, now you can go down into the cinder-cellar and bring up here all the things there are in that little box in the corner.  Off you go!”

And off went Cyril.  He had to swagger through the kitchen.

“What did I tell you, Master Cyril?” Amy unwisely asked of him.  “You’ve copped it finely this time.”