"Of course. Oh, he is a perfect boy—a good boy! I only wish he had never darkened my doors—the young villain!"
"Hush, now Miss Pinckney. Calm yourself, and let us have a look for the box. Where was it put?"
"Why, in the drawer, to be sure, under the counter. I keep the key of the drawer in my key basket. I always locked it—always. He got the key and opened it. There was four pounds and odd money in it—close on five pounds."
"I am certain," said Patience, "Jack did not steal your money, sister Amelia." Poor Patience was calm now. "It is impossible," she continued. "He was—he was as honest as the day, and as true as gold."
"All that's very fine—very fine indeed. He stole the money, and made off. If he didn't, who did?"
Patience stood wondering for a few moments, going over all that day—that last day. Jack had been at school and out till nearly tea-time; then he had sat with his books till supper; and then came the uproar with his aunt, and he had rushed away—straight out of the house. He could not have stopped in the shop on the way; besides, a plot must have been laid to get the key. It was impossible Jack could be guilty.
She looked at George, and read in his face deep sympathy, and also read there a reassuring smile.
"No," he said. "Whoever is the thief, Jack is innocent. Circumstances may be against him—his running off to sea, and his passion-fit against you—but I believe him to be innocent. You had better leave things as you found them, and I'll call in a policeman. There'll be one on his beat at the end of the row by this time. It is right and just all proper inquiries should be made."
The policeman—a stolid, sober individual, who never wasted words—came at George Paterson's bidding, and looked with a professional eye at the drawer whence the money had been abstracted.
"Box and all gone! That's queer. Key of box fastened to it by a string. Humph! Any servant in the house?"