His peaceful solitude was therefore perpetually disturbed throughout the day by the arrival of breathless parties of scouts. He would sally out to the gate to meet them, and ask nervously: “Well, my lads, seen anything of him, eh?” Deep was his inward relief when the day closed in with no news of the thief, for he would have cheerfully sacrificed many silver inkstands rather than have been obliged to deliver the unfortunate Barney into the hands of justice.
Two evenings later than this, the vicar of Danecross stood at the open door of the Darvells’ cottage at Green Highlands, and looked into the room. Mrs Darvell was alone, scrubbing away at her brick floor on her knees, and surrounded by a formidable array of pails, and brushes, and mops. The place had a comfortless air, and there was no fire on the hearth.
“Late at work, Mrs Darvell, eh?” was the vicar’s greeting as he stood on the threshold.
Mrs Darvell got up quickly, and dropped her usual brisk courtesy, but her face looked dull and spiritless.
“I’m in too much of a muss to ask you in, sir,” she said, glancing round.
“Oh, never mind,” said the clergyman; “where’s Darvell? Isn’t he back from work yet?”
Mrs Darvell shrugged her shoulders, and made an expressive movement with her head in the direction of Danecross.
“I reckon he’s where he generally is now,” she answered moodily, “at the ‘Nag’s Head.’”
“Why, that’s something new, isn’t it? I always consider Darvell one of the steadiest men in my parish.”