“Well, Mr. Furze, what then?”
“What then?” said Mrs. Furze, with a little titter; “the evidence seems complete.”
“A marked coin,” continued Mr. Furze. “I may say at once that I do not propose to prosecute, although if I were to take proceedings and to produce the evidence of Jim and his brother with regard to Humphries, I should obtain a conviction. But I cannot bring myself to—to—the—forget your past services, and I wish to show no unchristian malice, even for such a crime as yours. You are discharged, and there are a week’s wages.”
“I am not sure,” said Mrs. Furze, “that we are not doing wrong in the eye of the law, and that we might not ourselves be prosecuted for conniving at a felony.”
Tom was silent for a moment, but it never entered into his head to ask for corroboration or any details.
“I will ask you both”—he spoke with deliberation and emphasis—“do you, both of you, believe I am a thief?”
“Really,” said Mrs. Furze, “what a question to put! Two men declare money was paid to you for which you never accounted, and a marked sovereign, to which you had no right, was in your possession last Saturday evening. You seem rather absurd, Mr. Catchpole.”
“Mrs. Furze, I repeat my question: do you believe I am a thief?”
“We are not going to prosecute you: let that be enough for you; I decline to say any more than it suits me to say: you have had the reasons for dismissal; ask yourself whether they are conclusive or not, and what the verdict of a jury would be.”
“Then I tell you, Mrs. Furze, and I tell you, Mr. Furze, before the all-knowing God, who is in this room at this moment, that I am utterly innocent, and that somebody has wickedly lied.”