"The money—where's the money?" he muttered. His eyes opened wider. Then of a sudden his brain cleared. He sat up with a wild cry, almost a scream; and, thrusting Rat-it-all backwards with all the force of one hand, with the other groped on the floor for his walking-staff—which lay, however, a couple of yards from him and close by Mr Pamphlett's feet.
"My money!—Rogues! Cheats!—" He broke down and put a hand to his head in momentary faintness. "Where be I?" Then taking his hand away and catching sight of the blood on it, he yelled out "Murder! Where's my money? Murder! Thieves!"
"Hush 'ee, Mister Nanjivell." 'Beida dropped on her knees beside him. "Hush 'ee now, co! Here, let me take the towel an' bathe your poor head," she coaxed him. "You've had a fall, an' cut yourself— that's what happened. An' these men weren't murderin' 'ee, nor shan't while I am here. No, nor they han't stole your money, neither—though I won't say they weren't tryin'."
He submitted, after a feeble convulsive struggle. "Where's my money?" he persisted.
"Your money's all right. Safe as if 'twas in the Bank—safer, I reckon," she added, with an unfriendly glance at Mr Pamphlett.
"What money is this you're talking about?" asked that gentleman, stepping forward. He had no children of his own: and when he spoke to children (which was not often) his tone conveyed that he thought very little of them. He used that tone now: which was sheer blundering folly: and he met his match.
"The money you were huntin' for," answered 'Beida, quick as thought.
"You mustn't speak to me like that. It's naughty and—er— unbecoming."
"Why? Weren't you lookin' for it?" Her eyes sought Rat-it-all and questioned him.
Mr Pamphlett made haste before his ally could speak. "The Policeman was acting in the execution of his duty." This was a fine phrase, and it took 'Beida aback, for she had not a notion what it meant. But while she sought for a retort, Mr Pamphlett followed up his advantage, to crush her, and blundered again. "You don't understand that, eh?"