“Furze,” she said, “you’re a fool: where’s the sovereign? You haven’t got it, but how are you to prove now that he has got it? We are just where we were before. You ought to have taxed him with it at once, and have had him searched.”
Mr. Furze was crestfallen, and made no reply. The next morning at church he was picturing to himself incessantly the dreadful moment when he would have to do something so totally unlike anything he had ever done before.
On the Sunday afternoon Jim appeared at the Terrace, and Phœbe, who was not very well, and was at home, announced that he wished to see Mr. Furze.
“What can the man want? Tell him I will come down.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Furze, “Jim had better come up here.”
Mr. Furze was surprised, but, as Phœbe was waiting, he said nothing, and Jim came up.
“Beg pardon for interruptin’ yer on Sunday arternoon, but I’ve ’eerd as yer ain’t satisfied with Mr. Catchpole, and I thought I’d jist tell yer as soon as I could as yesterday arternoon, while I was mindin’ the shop, and he was out, I ’ad to go to the till, and it jist so ’appened, as I was a-givin’ change, I was a-lookin’ at a George the Third sovereign there, and took particklar notice of it. There was a mark on it. That werry sovereign was changed by Mr. Catchpole at Butterfield’s that night, and ’ere it is. I ’ad to go in there, as I wanted a sovereign for a lot of silver, and he giv it to me.”
“Can Butterfield swear that Catchpole gave it him?” said Mrs. Furze, quite calmly.
“Of course he can, marm; that’s jist wot I asked him.”
“That will do, Jim; you can go,” said Mrs. Furze.