"Well, it's a strange thing," said Cole, when he had turned the news over in his mind. "What do _you_ think, Johnny?" He would often say to me when talking of things and people, "What do _you_ think?" He had a theory that I saw more clearly than others, just as Duffham at Church Dykely had. I had nothing particular to think about this: it seemed a hopeless mystery. "Lee's sure," said Cole, speaking of the postman; "so is Rymer. It could have been in no other hands on this side the journey." "The Worcester people say it was not tampered with on their side." "Have you questioned Rymer about it?" "Not yet," croaked the Squire. "I meant to have gone to him to-day." "Which you will not do!" cried Mr. Cole. "But now, look here: I wouldn't tell people at first that the exchanged note was one of those stolen ones, if I were you: not even Rymer. No one likes to be mixed up in robberies. You'd put folks on their guard at once; and any chance word of enlightenment, that might otherwise be dropped, would be kept in." We did not quite take him. "_I_ would not," repeated Cole. "But we must inquire about it," said Tod. "What's to be said of the note?" "Say that the bank-note you put in was changed _en route_ for another one: that the numbers did not tally. That's all you need say at first." Tod could not see any reason in the argument; but the Squire took up the idea eagerly, and ordered Tod to do as was suggested. He was unable to go to Timberdale himself, but was far too impatient to let it rest until another day, and so Tod was to be his deputy. With at least a hundred suggestions and injunctions from the Squire--who only ceased when his voice disappeared completely--we set off, taking the way of the Ravine. It was a fine spring day: the trees were coming into leaf, the thorns and other bushes were budding: violets and primroses nestled at their feet. I picked some early cowslips for a ball for Lena, and some double white violets for Mrs. Todhetley. Past Timberdale Court went we; past the church; past Jael Batty's and the other straggling cottages, and came to the village street. It was paved: and you can't say that of all villages. Mr. Rymer was behind his counter: a thin, delicate-faced man, with a rather sad expression and mild brown eyes. In spite of his poor clothes and his white apron and the obscure shop he had served in for twenty years, his face had "gentleman" plainly stamped on it: but he gave you the idea of being too meek-spirited; as if in any struggle with the world he could never take his own part.