Miss Barnicroft rose with an air of having settled the question, but suddenly sat down again and said with a short laugh:
“By the way, you have thieves in your parish.”
“Really! I hope not,” said the vicar.
Ambrose, who had retired to his former position on the rug, began to listen intently. This sounded interesting.
“A month ago,” she continued, “I put away some gold pieces for which I had no use, and they have been stolen.”
“Did you lock them up?” asked Mr Hawthorne.
“I did a safer thing than that,” said Miss Barnicroft, laughing contemptuously; “I buried them.”
“In your garden?”
“No. I put them into a honey-jar and buried it in what, I believe, is called the Roman Camp, not far from my house.”
The words, spoken in Miss Barnicroft’s clear cold tones, fell icily on Ambrose’s ear, and seemed to turn him to stone. He and David were thieves! It was no antique vessel they had discovered, but a common honey-pot; no Roman coins, but Miss Barnicroft’s money. If only he had done as David wished, and told his father long ago!