Alarmed, he started from bed and explored the pockets of his trousers and of his waistcoat, and then again went through all those of his coat, but in vain. He had lost the box.
Here was fresh cause for uneasiness. Where had he lost it? Surely not at Coombe Cellars. With a sigh of relief, he recalled having struck a light in the linhay in Miller Ash’s field, and that it had excited the interest of Kate. He had then slipped it back into his pocket, as he believed. In all likelihood it had fallen out when he was thrown from the cart on the moor.
Towards morning he dropped into broken sleep, from which he started every few moments in terror, imagining that a constable was laying hold of him, or that he saw Jason Quarm leaping upon him enveloped in flames.
When he woke, he saw the lawyer dressing himself and shaving. His face was lathered about chin and neck and upper lip. He turned towards Pepperill and said, “You are a nice fellow to have as a comrade in a bedroom.”
“Am I? Well, I daresay I am,” answered Pasco, always prepared for a recognition of his merits.
“I was speaking ironically, man,” said Mr. Squire. “By George! how you did toss and tumble in the night. If I had had an uneasy conscience, you would have kept me awake. What was the matter with you?”
“With me? Nothing. I never slept sounder.”
“Then you must give your wife bad nights at home. I thought it might have been your spill.”
“Oh yes, to be sure it was that. I suffered in my arm and foot; and look, I’m all black and yellow this morning. I shall go back at once to Coombe Cellars.”
“You will? Why, man alive, we want you at Tavistock. There is your poor uncle’s funeral, you know, to see to. I say, if we are to travel together, you won’t cry over-much, will you? I love tears, but in moderation.”