People who mixed their drinks and their company when in possession of large sums of ready money should not complain if they lost it. She ought to be thankful she had not been relieved of the lot. They would make inquiries, of course, but held out no hope. There was an officer with a string of recruits in town, an Irish privateer and two foreign ships in the port, to say nothing of the Guernsey smugglers—the place was seething with covetous and desperate characters. They wagged their wigs and doubted if she would ever see her money again.
She never did.
CHAPTER XIII
Some three weeks after Teresa’s loss Eli found his brother in the yard fitting a fork-head to a new haft.
“Saw William John Prowse up to Church-town,” said he. “He told me to tell you that you must take the two horses over to once because he’s got to go away.”
Ortho frowned. Under his breath he consigned William John Prowse to eternal discomfort. Then his face cleared.
“I’ve been buying a horse or two for Pyramus,” he remarked casually. “He’ll be down along next week.”
Eli gave him a curious glance. Ortho looked up and their eyes met.
“What’s the matter?”
“It was you stole that hundred pounds from mother, I suppose.”