“I don’t think he said a word, sir, but they were talking about it at the shop, and young Barker saw ’em last.”
“Barker—Barker? Not—”
“Yes, sir, him as you give a month to for stealing pheasants’ eggs. That loafing chap.”
“He saw them last night? Here, go and tell Smith to fetch him here before me.”
Samuel smiled.
“Do you hear, sir? Don’t stand grinning there.”
“No, sir; certainly not, sir,” said the man, “but Tom Jonson thought you’d like to see him, sir, and he collared him at once and brought him on.”
“Quite right. Bring him in at once. Stop a moment. Put two or three ‘Statutes at Large’ and ‘Burns’ Justice of the Peace’ on the table.”
The man hurriedly gave the side-table a magisterial look with four or fire pie-crust coloured quartos and a couple of bulky manuals, while Wilton turned to his wife.
“Here, Maria,” he growled, in a low tone; “you’d better be off.”