“Only a burglar,” answered Miss Stivergill.
“Where is he?” chorussed everybody.
“That’s best known to himself,” replied the lady, who, in order to give the fugitive time, went into a minute and slow account of the whole affair—excepting, of course, her connivance at the escape—to the great edification of her audience, among whom the one who seemed to derive the chief enjoyment was a black boy. He endeavoured to screen himself behind the labourers, and was obviously unable to restrain his glee.
“But what’s come of ’im, ma’am?” asked the farmer impatiently.
“Escaped!” answered Miss Stivergill.
“Escaped!” echoed everybody, looking furtively round, as though they supposed he had only escaped under the dresser or into the keyhole.
“Escaped!” repeated the policeman, who entered at the moment with two comrades; “impossible! I tied ’im so that no efforts of his own could avail ’im. Somebody must ’ave ’elped ’im.”
“The carving-knife helped him,” said Miss Stivergill, with a look of dignity.—“Perhaps, instead of speculating how he escaped, policeman, it would be better to pursue him. He can’t be very far off, as it is not twenty minutes since he cut himself free.”
In a state of utter bewilderment the policeman rushed out of the cottage, followed by his comrades and the agriculturists. Peter Pax essayed to go with them, but was restrained by an iron grip on his collar. Pulling him back, Miss Stivergill dragged her captive into a parlour and shut the door.
“Come now, little Pax,” she said, setting the boy in a chair in front of her, “you needn’t try to deceive me. I’d know you among a thousand in any disguise. If you were to blacken your face with coal-tar an inch thick your impertinence would shine through. You know that the burglar is little Bones’s father; you’ve a pretty good guess that I let him off. You have come here for some purpose in connection with him. Come—out with it, and make a clean breast.”