The maid's name was Hannah--Miss Hannah Welsh. She was not young, and she was not good-looking. Mr. Bennett was partial to both youth and beauty. It went against the grain to court Miss Welsh. But he found that courtship was an absolutely indispensable preliminary. After he had encircled her waist a few times with his arm, and tasted the nectar of her lips--also a few times--Miss Welsh began gradually to unbend. But the process was very gradual. She was the most reticent of maids. He had not only to present her with several presents--the proceeds of the exercise of his profession--he had not only to promise to marry her, he had not only to name the day, but he had even to buy--or steal: the words were synonymous with him--the wedding-ring, before all the tale was told. When he had actually tried the ring on Miss Welsh's finger--to see if it would fit--then, and only then, he heard all there was to hear. Miss Jones was queer--not mad exactly, but peculiar. She had quarrelled with all her relatives. She was rich. She was full of crotchets. She distrusted all the world, particularly bankers. To such a length had she carried her want of confidence that she had realised all her fortune, turned it into specie, and kept it in the house. It was at this point that Miss Welsh's conversation became interesting to Mr. Bennett. "Keeps it in the house, does she? In notes, I suppose?" "Then you suppose wrong. She won't have nothing to do with notes--trust her. It's all in gold and diamonds." "Diamonds! How do you know they're diamonds?" Miss Welsh glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. The conversation was carried on in the back garden at Acacia Villa, which was extensive and secluded. The time was evening, that season which is popularly supposed to be conducive to sentimental intercourse. "Perhaps I know as much about diamonds as here and there a few." Her tone was peculiar, almost suggestive. For an instant Mr. Bennett meditated making a clean breast of it, and asking Miss Welsh to come in on sharing terms. But he had an incurable objection to collaboration. Besides, in this case sharing terms would probably mean that he would have to go through the form, at any rate, of making her his wife. "Where does she keep them? In a safe, I hope." He did not hope so, though he said he did. At the very best, a safe, to a professional man, means the wasting of valuable time. "She keeps them in her bedroom, in the chest of drawers, in a red leather box, in the little top drawer on the left-hand side." Mr. Bennett felt a glow steal all over him. He began to conceive quite a respect for Miss Cecilia Jones. "And the gold--where does she keep that?"