Chapter III

Thursday morning, the seventeenth of June--for we have to go back to that day. High Street was basking in the rays of the hot sun; foot passengers, meeting each other on the scorching pavement, lifted their hats for a moment's air, and said what a day it was going to be. The clean, bright shops faced each other from opposite sides. None of their wares looked more attractive than those displayed in the two windows of the silversmith.

Mr. Stephenson--a trustworthy, civil little man of thirty, with a plain face and sandy hair that stood upright on his head--was keeping guard over his master's goods, some of them being very valuable. The shop was a long one and he was far down in it, behind the left-hand counter. Before him lay a tray of small articles of jewellery, some of which he was touching up with a piece of wash-leather. He did not expect to be busy that day; the previous day, Wednesday, had been a busy one, so many country people came into town for the market.

While thus engaged a gentleman, young, good looking, and well dressed, entered the shop. Mr. Stephenson went forward.

"I have called for Mrs. Todhetley's brooch," said the stranger. "Is it ready?"

"What brooch, sir?" returned Stephenson.

"The one she left with you to be mended."

The shopman felt a little puzzled. He said he did not remember that any brooch had been left by that lady to be mended.

"Mrs. Todhetley of Crabb Cot," explained the applicant, perhaps thinking the man was at fault that way.

"Oh, yes, sir, I know who you mean; I know Mrs. Todhetley. But she has not left any brooch here."

"Yes, she has; she left it to be mended. I was to call to-day and ask for it."

Stephenson turned to reach the book in which articles left to be mended were entered, with their owners' names. Perhaps his master might have taken in the brooch and omitted to tell him. But no such entry was recorded in it.

"I am afraid it is a mistake, sir," he said. "Had Mrs. Todhetley left a brooch, or anything else, for repair, it would be entered here. She may have taken it to some other shop."

"No, no; it is yours I was to call at. She bought it here a few months ago," added the young man. "She came in to ask you about the polishing-up of an old silver cake-basket, and you showed her the brooches, some you had just had down from London, and she bought one of them and gave four guineas for it."

Stephenson remembered the transaction perfectly. He had stood by while his principal showed and sold the brooch to Mrs. Todhetley. Four only of these brooches had been sent to them on approval by their London agent, they were something quite new. Mrs. Todhetley admired them greatly; said she wanted to make a wedding present to a young lady about to be married, but had not meant to give as much as four guineas. However, the beauty of the brooch tempted her; she bought it, and took it home.

Stephenson's silence, while he was recalling this to his memory, caused the gentleman to think his word was doubted, and he entered into further particulars.

"It was last March, I think," he said. "The brooch is a rather large one; a white cornelian stone, or something of that sort, with a raised spray of flowers upon it, pink and gold; the whole surrounded by a border of gold filagree work. I never saw a nicer brooch."

"Yes, yes, sir, it was just as you say; I recollect it all quite well. Mrs. Todhetley bought it to give away as a wedding present."

"And the wedding never came off," said the young man, with ease. "Before she had time to despatch the brooch, news came to her of the rupture.--So she had to keep it herself: and the best thing too, the Squire said. Well, it is that brooch I have come for."

"But I assure you it has not been left with us, Mr. Todhetley," said Stephenson, presuming he was speaking to the Squire's son.

"The little pink flower got broken off last week as Mrs. Todhetley was undoing her shawl; she brought it in at once to be mended," persisted the young man.

"But not here indeed, sir," reiterated Stephenson. "I'm sorry to hear it is broken."

"She wouldn't take it anywhere but to the place it was bought at, would she? I'm sure it was here I had to come for it."

Stephenson felt all abroad. He did not think it likely the brooch would be taken elsewhere, and began to wonder whether his master had taken it in, and forgotten all about it. Opening a shallow drawer or two in the counter, in one of which articles for repair were put, in the other the repaired articles when finished, he searched both, but could not see the brooch. This took him some little time, as most of the things were in paper and he had to undo it.

Meanwhile the applicant amused himself by looking at the articles displayed under the glass frame on the counter. He seemed to be rather struck with some very pretty pencils.

"Are those pencils gold?" he inquired of Stephenson, when the latter came forward with the news that the brooch was certainly not in the shop.

"No, sir; they are silver gilt."

Lifting the glass lid, Stephenson took out the tray on which the pencils and other things lay, and put it right under the young man's nose, in the persuasive manner peculiar to shopmen. The pencils were chased richly enough for gold, and had each a handsome stone at the end, which might or might not be real.

"What is the price?"

"Twelve shillings each, sir. We bought them a bargain; from a bankrupt's stock in fact; and can afford to sell them as such."

"I should like to take this one, I think," said the young man, choosing out one with a pink topaz. "Wait a bit, though: I must see if I've enough change to pay for it."

"Oh, sir, don't trouble about that; we will put it down to you."

"No, no, that won't do. One, two, four, six. Six shillings; all I have in the world," he added laughing, as he counted the coin in his porte-monnaie, "and that I want. You can change me a ten-pound note, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir, if you wish it."

The purchaser extracted the note from a secret pocket of his porte-monnaie, and handed it to the shopman.

"The Squire's name is on it," he remarked.

Which caused Stephenson to look at the back. Sure enough, there it was--"J. Todhetley," in the Squire's own handwriting.

"Give me gold, if you can."

Stephenson handed over nine pounds in gold and eight shillings in silver. He then wrapped the pencil in soft white paper, and handed over that.

Wishing the civil shopman good morning, the young man left. He stood outside the door for a minute, looking about him, and then walked briskly up the street. While Stephenson locked up the ten-pound note in the cash-box.

There it lay, snug and safe, for two or three weeks. One day Stephenson, finding he had not enough change for a customer who came in to pay a bill, ran over to the draper's opposite and got change for it there. These were the particulars which Stephenson had furnished, and furnished readily, upon inquiries being made of him.

* * * * *

Squire Todhetley drove like the wind, and we soon reached Worcester, alighting as usual at the Star-and-Garter. The Squire's commotion had been growing all the way; that goes without telling. He wanted to take the bank first; Tom Chandler recommended that it should be the silversmith's.

"The bank comes first in the way," snapped the Squire.

"I know that, sir; but we can soon come back to it when we have heard what the others say."

Yet I think he would have gone into the bank head-foremost, as we passed it, but chance had it that we met Corles, the lawyer, at the top of Broad Street. Turning quickly into High Street, on his way from his office, he came right upon us. The Squire pinned him by the button-hole.

"The very man I wanted to see," cried he. "And now you'll be good enough to tell me, Edward Corles, what you meant by that rigmarole you wrote to Paul yesterday about my son."

"I cannot tell what was meant, Squire, any more than you can; I only wrote in accordance with my information," said Mr. Corles, shaking hands with the rest of us. "You have done well to come over; and I will accompany you now, if you like, to see Stephenson."

The Squire put his arm within the younger man's, and marched on down High Street to the silversmith's, never so much as looking at the bank door. Stephenson was in the shop alone: such a lot of us, it seemed, turning in!

The Squire, hot and impulsive, attacked him as he had attacked Edward Corles. What did Stephenson mean by making that infamous accusation about his son?

It took Stephenson aback, as might be seen; his eyes opened and his hair stood on end straighter than ever. Looking from one to the other of us, he last looked at Mr. Corles, as if seeking an explanation.

"The best thing you can do, to begin with, Stephenson, is to relate to Squire Todhetley and these gentlemen the particulars you gave me yesterday morning," said Mr. Corles. "I mean when you took the bank-note, a month ago."

Without more ado, Stephenson quietly followed the advice; he seemed of as calm a temperament as the Squire was the contrary, and recited the particulars just given. The Squire's will was good to interrupt at every second word, but Mr. Corles begged him to listen to the end.

"Oh, that's all very well," cried he at last, "all true, I dare say; what I want to know is, how you came to pitch upon that customer as being my son."

"But he was your son, sir. He was young Mr. Todhetley."

"Nonsense!" retorted the Squire. "Was this he?" drawing Tod forward.

"No, sir; certainly not."

"Well, this is my only son; except a little who is not yet much more than out of his petticoats. Come! what do you say now?"

Stephenson looked again at one and the other of us. His pale face took a sort of thoughtful haze as if he had passed into a fog.

"It must have been young Mr. Todhetley," spoke he; "everything seemed to uphold the fact."

"Now don't you turn obstinate and uphold what is _not_ the fact," reproved the Squire. "When I tell you this is my only son, except the child, how dare you dispute my word?"

It should be stated that Stephenson had been with the silversmith since the beginning of the year only, and had come from Birmingham. He knew Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley by sight, from their coming sometimes to the shop, but he had never yet seen Tod or me.

"I don't suppose you want Squire Todhetley's word confirmed, Stephenson, but I can do so if necessary," said Mr. Corles. "This is his only grown-up son."

"No, no, sir, of course I don't," said Stephenson. "This gentleman," looking at Tod, "does not bear any resemblance to the one who changed the note."

"What was he like?" said Tom Chandler, speaking for the first time; and he asked it because his thoughts were full.

"He was fair, sir," replied Stephenson.

"What height?"

"About middle height. A young, slender man."

"Well dressed? Spoke like a gentleman?"

"Oh, quite like a gentleman, and very well dressed indeed."

"Just as MacEveril was that morning, on the strength of getting to the picnic," ran through Tom Chandler's thoughts. "Did he come off here first, I wonder?"

"He seemed to know all about you, sir, just as though he lived at your house," said Stephenson to the Squire; "and Mrs. Todhetley sent him for her brooch that day. Perhaps you may know, sir, who it was she sent?"

"Sent! why, nobody," spluttered the Squire. "It must have been a planned thing. The brooch is not broken."

"He said the little pink flower had got broken off, and that Mrs. Todhetley did it with her shawl," persisted Stephenson, unable to stare away his perplexity. And I think we were all feeling perplexed too.

"He knew what the brooch cost, and that it was bought for a wedding present, and that Mrs. Todhetley kept the brooch for herself because the wedding did not come off," went on Stephenson. "How could I suppose, sir, it was anybody but your own son? Why once I called him 'Mr. Todhetley;' I remember it quite well; and he did not tell me I was mistaken. Rely upon it, if you'll excuse me for saying so, Squire Todhetley, that it is some young gentleman who is intimate at your house and familiar with all its ways."

"Hang him for a young rogue!" retorted the Squire.

"And your own name was on the note, sir, which he bade me notice, and all! And--and I don't see how it was possible to _help_ falling into the mistake that he came from you," concluded Stephenson, with a slightly injured accent.

Upon which the Squire, having had time to take in the bearings of the matter, veered round altogether to the same opinion, and said so, and shook hands with Stephenson when we departed.

Tom Chandler let us go on, remaining behind for a minute or two. He wanted to put quietly a few questions about the appearance of the young man who had changed the note. He also examined the silver-gilt pencils, finally buying one which was precisely similar, stone and all, to the one which had been sold that other morning.

Stephenson answered the questions to the best of his ability and recollection. And Tom Chandler found that while on some points the description would have served very well for that of Richard MacEveril, on other points it did not seem to fit in with it at all.

A TRAGEDY

IV.--OLIVER