"Sartinly, Mrs. Costrell, sartinly," he said, with emphasis. "Come along, John. Yer must get Watson and put it in 'is hands. 'Ee's the law, is Watson. Maybe as Mrs. Costrell 'ull listen to _'im_." Mary Anne ran to Bessie in despair. "Oh, Bessie, Bessie, my dear--don't let 'em get Watson; let 'em look into 't theirselves--it'll be better for yer, my dear, it _will_." Bessie looked from one to the other, panting. Then she turned back to the table. "_I_ don' care what they do," she said, with sullen passion. "I'm not stannin' in any one's way, I tell yer. The more they finds out the better I'm pleased." The look of incipient laughter on Saunders's countenance became more pronounced--that is to say, the left-hand corner of his mouth twitched a little higher. But it was rare for him to complete the act, and he was not in the least minded to do so now. He beckoned to John, and John, trembling, took off his keys and gave them to him, pointing to that which belonged to the treasure cupboard. Saunders slipped it into the lock before him. It moved with ease, backwards and forwards. "H'm! that's strange," he said, taking out the key and turning it over thoughtfully in his hand. "Yer didn't think as there were _another_ key in this 'ouse that would open your cupboard, did yer, Bolderfield?" The old man sank weeping on a chair. He was too broken, too exhausted, to revile Bessie any more. "Yo' tell her, Muster Saunders," he said, "to gie it me back! I'll not ast for all on it, but some on it, Muster Saunders--some on it. She _can't_ 'a spent it. She must 'a got it somewhere. Yo' speak to her, Muster Saunders. It's a crule thing to rob an old man like me--an' her own mother's brother. Yo' speak to 'er--an' yo', too, Mary Anne." He looked piteously from one to the other. But his misery only seemed to goad Bessie to fresh fury. She turned upon him, arms akimbo. "Oh! an' of course it must be _me_ as robs yer! It couldn't be nobody else, could it? There isn't tramps, an' thieves, an' rogues--'undreds of 'em--going about o' nights? Nary one, I believe yer! There isn't another thief in Clinton Magna, nobbut Bessie Costrell, is ther? But yer'll not blackguard me for nothin', I can tell yer. Now will yer jest oblige me by takin' yourselves off? I shall 'ave to clean up after yer"--she pointed scornfully to the marks of their muddy boots on the floor--"an' it's gettin' late." "One moment, Mrs. Costrell," said Saunders, gently rubbing his hands. "With your leave, John and I 'ull just inspeck the cupboard _hup_stairs before leavin'--an' then we'll clear out double quick. But we'll 'ave one try if we can't 'it on somethin' as 'ull show 'ow the thief got in--with your leave, of _coorse_." Bessie hesitated; then she threw some spoons she held into the water beside her with a violent gesture. "Go where yer wants," she said, and returned to her washing.