“That’s right,” said Mrs Trimble, once more shuddering at the prospect of being left short-handed. “What I was going to say to you was, that now you’ve been here six months, and are not a forward young man, and don’t drink, I shall raise your wages, and give you thirty shillings a month instead of twenty. How will that suit you?”
“You are very kind,” said the grateful Jeffreys, with a tremble in his voice which quite moved the old lady’s heart; “it will be very acceptable.”
“Very good. You need not mention it to Jonah,” added she hurriedly, as that young gentleman’s footsteps were heard that moment on the stairs.
The only difference which the unconscious Jeffreys was aware of in the conduct of Jonah Trimble towards himself was that the young gentleman was a trifle more hectoring and a trifle more facetious than before.
But even to the little mind of Jonah Trimble it had been revealed that at present it would be extremely awkward for Galloway House if Jeffreys went “on strike.” He was a good teacher and manager; and his boys were devoted to him. Of course, when a boy goes home from school full of the praises of his teacher, his parents are pleased too, and think well of the school, and tell their friends what a nice place it is for boys, and so on. It is a good advertisement, in fact. Besides, with Mrs Trimble so lazy, and Jonah himself so unattractive, it would involve a great deal of trouble all round if Jeffreys deserted it. They knew by experience that young fellows of good education did not as a rule jump at the situation of second usher in Galloway House. And they knew, also, something of the horrors of a prolonged vacancy in their staff.
Jonah was rather relieved when Jeffreys, immediately after school, shut himself up in his own room, and remained there studying for the rest of the evening. The proceeding favoured a little idea of his own, which was to revisit the spot where he had tied his bootlace the evening before, and see if an examination of that fatal spot would throw any fresh light on his investigation. Accordingly after tea he sallied forth with a trowel in his coat pocket. It was rather a dismal expedition, for it rained, and there was a cool breeze. The lane was muddy even in the roadway, and on the banks it was a quagmire. Still Jonah was too full of his mystery seriously to mind the weather.
He trudged up and down the lane, sharply scrutinising the hedge for his bootlace. For a long time his perseverance was unrewarded. At length, however, his eye detected the welcome flutter of a bright tag among the leaves, and he recognised the scene of last night’s damp sojourn.
He clambered up onto the bank, regardless of his garments, and commenced an anxious scrutiny. The bank itself showed no signs of a “mystery.” Even the traces of Jeffreys’ visit to it the night before were obliterated by the soaking rain. The field on the other side was equally unsuggestive. Jonah trampled around in circles on the young corn, but never a pistol, or a rusty knife, or a bottle of poison, did he discover.
Yet he had heard the villain say distinctly,—
“This was the very place!”