People talked no more freely to Steer than he to them; and another week had passed before he had fresh evidence. It came after a parish meeting from the schoolmistress, a grey-haired, single lady, much respected.
“I don’t like Molly looking so pale and daverdy, Mr. Steer. I’m grieved about Ned Bowden, I thought he was a steady boy.”
“What about him?”
“That girl at Bowden’s.”
Steer flopped into the depths of consciousness. So everybody round had known, maybe for weeks, that his niece was being jilted for that cross-bred slut; known, and been grinning up their sleeves, had they? And that evening he announced:
“I’m goin’ round to Bowden’s, Molly.”
She coloured, then went pale.
“They shan’t put it up on you,” he said, “I’ll see to that. Give me that ring of his—I may want it.”
Molly Winch silently slipped off her amethyst engagement ring, and gave it him.
Steer put on his best hat, breeches and gaiters, took a thin stick, and set out.