By the end of a week he was jubilant. A child could have told Mr. Digson's intentions—and Mrs. Phipps was anything but a child. Mr. Clarkson admitted cheerfully that Mr. Digson was a younger and better- looking man than himself—a more suitable match in every way. And, so far as he could judge, Mrs. Phipps seemed to think so. At any rate, she had ceased to make the faintest allusion to any tie between them. He left her one day painting a door, while the attentive Digson guided the brush, and walked homewards smiling.
"Morning!" said a voice behind him.
"Morning, Bignell," said Mr. Clarkson.
"When—when is it to be?" inquired his friend, walking beside him.
Mr. Clarkson frowned. "When is what to be?" he demanded, disagreeably.
Mr. Bignell lowered his voice. "You'll lose her if you ain't careful," he said. "Mark my words. Can't you see Digson's little game?"
Mr. Clarkson shrugged his shoulders.
"He's after her money," said the other, with a cautious glance around.
"Money?" said the other, with an astonished laugh. "Why, she hasn't got any."
"Oh, all right," said Mr. Bignell. "You know best of course. I was just giving you the tip, but if you know better—why, there's nothing more to be said. She'll be riding in her carriage and pair in six months, anyhow; the richest woman in Little Molton."