Tom could not speak, but he made a snatch at his uncle’s hand, to feel it close warmly upon his own.
David looked from one to the other, and then stooped and picked up his hat, put it on, recollected himself, and snatched it off again.
“Well,” he said softly, “it’s a rum ’un. If I didn’t feel quite cock-sure as it was you, Master Tom, that I did. Then it warn’t you, arter all! Then who was it? that’s what I want to know.”
“That’s what we all want to know, David,” said Uncle Richard, as he laid his hand now upon his nephew’s shoulder, the firm pressure seeming to send a thrill of strength and determination through the boy’s heart. “One thing is very plain—it could not have broken itself.”
“But don’t you think, Master Tom, as it might have gone down when you leaned over the wrapper?”
“Impossible,” said Uncle Richard quickly. “The glass was far too heavy, as we well know, eh, Tom? Here, let’s look out outside.”
He led the way through the open door, and round to the window beneath which the speculum had lain upon the bench, and examined the lately made flower-bed, in which various creepers had been planted to run up the wall.
“There’s no need to be in doubt,” said Uncle Richard, pointing; and Tom uttered an excited cry, for there, deeply-marked beneath the window were the prints of heavy-nailed boots, doubled—by the toes pointing toward the mill, and by the appearance as of some one stepping partly into them again.
“Are those your footmarks, David?” said his master.
“Mine, sir? No. Mine’s got tips on the toes. Look.”