“Not a word,” said Badger; “neither did I. He slipped it back into his pocket.”
“I hope you think there’s some proof to go upon now,” were Charles Cockermuth’s last words to the police-officer as he wished him good-night.
On the following morning, Sam Dene was apprehended, and taken before the magistrates. Beyond being formally charged, very little was done; Miss Betty was in bed with a sick headache, brought on by the worry, and could not appear to give evidence; so he was remanded on bail until Saturday.
III.
I’m sure you might have thought all his rick-yards were on fire by the way old Jacobson came bursting in. It was Saturday morning, and we were at breakfast at Dyke Manor. He had run every step of the way from Elm Farm, two miles nearly, not having patience to wait for his gig, and came in all excitement, the Worcester Herald in his hand. The Squire started from his chair; Mrs. Todhetley, then in the act of pouring out a cup of coffee, let it flow over on to the tablecloth.
“What on earth’s amiss, Jacobson?” cried the Squire.
“Ay, what’s amiss,” stuttered Jacobson in answer; “this is amiss,” holding out the newspaper. “I’ll prosecute the editor as sure as I’m a living man. It is a conspiracy got up to sell it; a concocted lie. It can’t be anything else, you know, Todhetley. And I want you to go off with me to Worcester. The gig’s following me.”
When we had somewhat collected our senses, and could look at the newspaper, there was the account as large as life. Samson Reginald Dene had been had up before the magistrates on Thursday morning on a charge of stealing a small box of carved ebony, containing sixty guineas in gold, from the dwelling house of Lawyer Cockermuth; and he was to be brought up again that day, Saturday, for examination.
“A pretty thing this is to see, when a man opens his weekly newspaper at his breakfast-table!” gasped Jacobson, flicking the report with his angry finger. “I’ll have the law of them—accusing my nephew of such a thing as that! You’ll go with me, Squire!”