“Just—,” Mr Timson cut off the “so,” and rubbed the side of his nose, and looked mysterious. Then, resting one finger upon the vicar’s black silk vest, he said, “Once upon a time my desk was robbed—over and over again—without being broken open, and I put in marked money, and still it went; but I found the party out by that plan. And how do you think they got at the money, sir?”
“Crooked wire through the crack,” said the vicar.
“No, no—false keys!” said Mr Timson, wagging his head. “False keys, and it was some one that had constant access to my office that did it.”
The vicar mused, and fidgeted his neck in his stiff cravat, as involuntarily he turned over in his own mind the list of persons who had private access to the church—clerk, pew-opener, beadle, curate, organist, organ-blower, churchwardens, himself; and then he shook his head again, and the pair proceeded to count the money over once more upon the vestry table, calculated the total amount of silver and copper, made entries, and then tied the money carefully up in a little bag, and all to the accompaniment of Jared’s music, which ever and again made the windows of the little vestry to rattle loudly.
“Fine organist, Mr Pellet!” said the vicar, after listening in silence for a few minutes. “We were lucky in getting him, Timson.”
“Very fine; quite agree with you,” said Mr Timson. “Capital congregations we get, too, now—almost double what they were in old Harvey’s time.”
“Um!” ejaculated the vicar, with a curious dry look upon his features.
“Just so, sir,” said Mr Timson. “You see, people like music, and will come miles to hear it.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said the vicar, half sadly; “and ours certainly is a very fine instrument.”
“And beautifully played,” said Mr Timson; “not but what I think we have too much of it; but people say it is well played.”