The Squire drew a deep breath. “And you say Monk did all this?”
“Nonsense, Squire. I say he might have done it. I say, moreover, that it looks very like it. Putting Monk aside, your scent would be wholly at fault.”
“What is to be done?”
“I’ll go and see Mother Picker; she can tell what time he went in last night, and what time he came out this morning,” cried Tod, who was just as hasty as the pater. But old Duff caught him as he was vaulting off.
“I had better see Mother Picker. Will you let me act in this matter, Squire, and see what can be made of it?”
“Do, Duffham. Take Jones to help you?”
“Jones be shot,” returned Duff in a passion. “If I wanted any one—which I don’t—I’d take Johnny. He is worth fifty Joneses. Say nothing—nothing at all. Do you understand?”
He went off down a side path, and crossed Jenkins, who was at work now. Monk stayed in the greenhouse.
“This is a sad calamity, Jenkins.”
“It’s the worst I ever met with, sir,” cried Jenkins, touching his hat. “And what have done it is the odd thing. Monk, he talks of the candles poisoning of ’em; but I don’t know.”