"No, sir; I have not. I never put money under a mattress."
"'Tis my belief, 'tis my belief," whispered a rheumatic old Irishman to Mr. Page, "that the b'y yonder," pointing to William, "has got up some thrick agin the Indian. He have a great spite agin him."
"You don't believe he has hidden the money, do you?" inquired Mr. Page.
"I do, ye know," was the reply. "He's the divil's own limb—that same youngster. And they both of them, mother and son, have a great spite agin the Indians because they're Catholics. 'Tis a shame, sir, to have that innocent crathur accused in this way."
"It is," agreed Mr. Page. "But no one who knows him will believe it. Further, there is not the slightest evidence to support the woman's accusation."
The old man looked at him quizzically. "You are a lawyer, I believe, sir," he said.
"Yes, I am," replied Mr. Page.
"From your point of view you are right, sir," replied the old man deliberately. "There's nothing agin him. But—but," he continued with greater deliberation, laying his shriveled hand on Mr. Page's arm, "till that b'y's cleared, till the pocket-book's found or the real thief's caught—there always will be a suspicion agin him as long as he lives."
"I agree with you," said Mr. Page. "The matter is very unfortunate. But we are powerless in the matter. We can do nothing."
The old man shook his head sadly, and was about to leave the house when his glance rested on the edge of the throng near the door. His old eyes brightened. Again laying his finger on Mr. Page's coat-sleeve, he said, in a low voice: