“‘Then I hope you’re satisfied, sir,’ I said.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘no, not at all; I’ve found him out, but now I wish to goodness that I had not, for it seems a cruel thing.’
“‘Who is it, sir?’ I said.
“‘Oh!’ he said, ‘it’s poor Pellet I found a false key at the bottom of his book-locker when I took the organist of St Chrysostom’s to try our instrument.’
“‘Pooh!’ I said, ‘nonsense, sir! stuff!’
“‘What!’ he says; ‘why, you suspected him yourself, and said you were sure he was the culprit only the other day.’”
“Oh Mr Timson!” groaned Jared. “Now don’t you be in a hurry,” grumbled the churchwarden, pettishly. “Hear me out, can’t you. You young fellows always will be so rash.”
Jared raised his hands deprecatingly, and the churchwarden continued—
“‘Very true, sir,’ I said, ‘so I did everybody in turn; but, depend upon it, ’tain’t Pellet.’ Those were the very words that passed, Mr Pellet; and now you’ve got to prove yourself innocent, that is, if you can, sir; for, though I stuck up for you to the vicar, I must say that it looks very black against you. We wanted to find the key to the mystery, and we found it, sir, in your box, so you’ve got to prove yourself an honest man, and show how the key got there.”
“But I can’t, Mr Timson,” said Jared. “I’ve not the slightest notion.”