“Go! of course I’ll go!” returned the Squire, in his hot partisanship. “We were going to Worcester, any way; I’ve things to do there. Poor Sam! Hanging would be too good for the printers of that newspaper, Jacobson.”
Mr. Jacobson’s gig was heard driving up to the gate at railroad speed; and soon our own carriage was ready. Old Jacobson sat with the Squire, I behind with Giles; the other groom, Blossom, drove Tod in the gig; and away we went in the blustering March wind. Many people, farmers and others, were on the road, riding or driving to Worcester market.
Well, we found it was true. And not the mistake of the newspapers: they had but reported what passed before the magistrates at the town hall.
The first person we saw was Miss Cockermuth. She was in a fine way, not knowing what to think or believe, and sat in the parlour in that soft green gown of twilled silk (that might have been a relic of the silk made in the time of the Queen of Sheba), her cap and front all awry. Rumour said old Jacobson had been a sweetheart of hers in their young days; but I’m sure I don’t know. Any way they were very friendly with one another, and she sometimes called him “Frederick.” He sat down by her on the horse-hair sofa, and we took chairs.
She recounted the circumstances (ramblingly) from beginning to end. Not that the end had come yet by a long way. And—there it was, she wound up, when the narrative was over: the box had disappeared, just for all the world as mysteriously as it disappeared in the days gone by.
Mr. Jacobson had listened patiently. He was a fine, upright man, with a healthy colour and bright dark eyes. He wore a blue frock-coat to-day with metal buttons, and top-boots. As yet he did not see how they had got up grounds for accusing Sam, and he said so.
“To be sure,” cried the Squire. “How’s that, Miss Betty?”
“Why, it’s this way,” said Miss Betty—“that nobody was here in the parlour but Sam when the box vanished. It is my brother Charles who has done it all; he is so passionate, you know. John has properly quarrelled with him for it.”
“It is not possible, you know, Miss Betty, that Sam Dene could have done it,” struck in Tod, who was boiling over with rage at the whole thing. “Some thief must have stolen in at the street-door when Sam had left the room.”
“Well, no, that could hardly have been, seeing that Charles never left the street-door after that,” returned Miss Betty, mildly. “It appears to be a certain fact that not a soul entered the room after the young man left it. And there lies the puzzle of it.”