Jared Pellet was right. Mr Gray was in a sad way about the affair, for it was a problem that he was not likely to solve. At first he had made a point of keeping the matter secret, but as months slipped by, and no discovery was made, he ceased to be reticent. Nothing was learned as to the cause, but the effect was plain enough--the money still went. He held long consultations with Mr Timson, and together, more than before, they set to and suspected everybody connected with the church, beginning, jestingly, with themselves, and then going downwards through the other churchwardens, Jared, the clerk, Purkis, Mrs Ruggles, Ichabod Gunniss, and the bellringers, who never entered the church. But, though every one was suspected in turn, no accusation was made; for, said the vicar-- "Timson, I would not, in my weak, short sighted way, be guilty of an act of injustice to any man!" "Why not set the police to work?" said Mr Timson. "A detective would furridge the matter out." "No," said the vicar, "I don't like the idea. I would not care if they'd rob me, Timson, but they will not; and this business is something I really cannot get over. If I put more in the box to make up what I reckon may be the deficiency, it seems to make no difference; and though your advice may be good, I don't feel as if I could take it. I have acted upon some of your hints, but still we don't find anything out." Mr Timson shook his head, and said, "Just so," which might have meant anything. After smoking a pipe or two, the churchwarden always left, declaring that he had got hold of the right end of the thread, and that he intended following up the clue, telling it mysteriously, and promising news by his next visit; for, being old and single, the vicar thought it no shame to play nightly at cribbage with his churchwarden, and in his company to smoke long clay pipes and drink whisky and water. But the only result of Mr Timson's clue-following was the getting of himself into a tangle, and, to the vicar's great disgust, he would seriously settle the offence upon a fresh head each time. "I tell you what it is, Timson," he one day exclaimed, pettishly, after listening for some time to the rumbling of the churchwarden's mountain, and then being rewarded with no grand discovery, but a very mouse of an information,--"I tell you what it is, Timson, you are getting into your dotage."