There was present an Orpheus who could animate the stocks and the stones. This was the old, bandy-legged fiddler, Geordie Wilkie. On ordinary occasions he was a simple clodhopper, trudging at the plough tail, or sitting upon his muddy cart; but at a foy, a penny wedding, or any other merrymaking, he was a potentate, a magician swaying the crowds at will, as the moon sways the waters of the deep. On this particular night, he was, as he himself expressed it, "in fine fettle." No sooner did he, after a few preliminary tunings and squeakings, strike up an old-fashioned reel, than the dead mass of humanity began to move, and throb, and leap. The music, like electricity, had flashed through their nerves and muscles and made them jump into life. In a trice they had fallen into sets and were involved in the mazes of the dance, thumping the floor with their hob-nailed shoes, cracking their horny fingers, grinning and grimacing to their partners, "hooching," and wheeling nimbly about, shaking off their cares as a dog shakes off the hail-drops, and looking as if there was to be no more worry or want in this world, and all was to be peace and plenty for evermore.
On another occasion, Winnie, with her sunny sympathetic disposition, would have entered thoroughly into this scene, and would have enjoyed to the full all its escapades and humours. But now her heart was frozen by despair, and could not feel anything like pleasure. Their bright merriment by its contrast only made her despondency all the darker. It seemed a mockery of her grief, and aggravated it intensely. She looked on in agony, and was wondering where she should go and what she should do, when she saw the unwonted sight of a policeman at the door of the barn; and immediately afterwards a servant whispered in her ear, "Please, Miss, you are wanted in the parlour." Then she knew that the catastrophe was at hand, and went away to meet it.
But a strange change had come over her—a change which surprised herself. Despair had become desperation, and she now felt herself perfectly calm and collected. She was eager to make a full explanation of the whole matter, and to abide the consequences. Therefore, when she entered the parlour, and saw a policeman, with the official calmness on his countenance, and Riley well dressed and bright, and Mr Stocks anxious and perplexed, and Miss Jaap flushed and giving her evidence, she was not surprised, but quietly took a seat and listened.
Miss Jaap in excited tones was telling her story—how she had seen Riley last night about seven o'clock watching the garden gate, how she had gone back half an hour afterwards and found him still lurking there, and how she was sure it was he who took the jewels, and it could be no one else. Then turning to Winnie, she said, "You know that this is true, Miss Laverock, for you saw him and were talking to him on the road, and came in through the garden and did not lock the door, and that was the way he got into the house."
At this venomous speech the hearers were visibly fluttered. Mr Stocks looked stern indignation; the policeman condescended to smile contemptuously; and Riley, producing a box, asked Miss Jaap if that was the stolen article.
"Ah, look there now!" cried Miss Jaap; "was I not right? He's obliged to confess that he is the thief."
"No, Miss! there you are wrong. But," he added, after listening to footsteps coming along the passage, "here, if I mistake not, comes the thief."
And two policemen entered with Black Morgan in charge.
"So," growled out Morgan, regarding Riley with a murderous look, "you hound, you split upon your pal after all your gammon! But look here, policemen, this smaik is the real boss of the plant. He has got the jewel-case on him."
"Right so far," replied Riley coolly; "but I took it from you in the way of business. I am Macnab, the detective."