The Squire growled, as a relief to his feelings, not knowing what in the world to do. He suddenly said he'd go to the Registrar's office, and started for Edgar Street. Mr. Clifton was not there, but a clerk was. Yes, Mr. Ashton of Timberdale had been there the previous day, he said, in answer to the Squire, and had got his licence. The governor (meaning Mr. Clifton, who knew the Ashtons and the Coneys well) had joked a bit with young Ashton, when he gave it. As to telling where Ashton of Timberdale and Mr. Coles had gone to afterwards, the clerk did not know at all. So there was nothing to be gathered at the Registrar's office, and the Squire turned his steps up the town again, Tod and Coney following him like two tame lambs; for he wouldn't let them make a suggestion or put in a word edgeways. He was on his way to the jeweller's now: but as he had omitted to ask Harry Coles which of the jewellers' shops the ring was bought at, he took them all in succession, and hit upon the right one after some difficulty. He learnt nothing there, either. Mr. Ashton of Timberdale had bought the ring and keeper, and paid for them, the master said. Of course every one knew the young lady was Miss Jane Coney: he had brought one of her rings as a guide for size: a chased gold ring, with small garnet stones in it. "I am not asking for rings and stones," interrupted the Squire, wrathfully. "I want to know if Mr. Ashton said where he was going to afterwards?" "He said never a word about it," returned the master. "When they went out of here--young Fred Coles was with him--they took the way towards the Hop Market." The Squire went to the Crown next--the inn used by the Ashtons of Timberdale. Robert Ashton had called in the previous day, about one o'clock, the waiter said, taking a little bread-and-cheese, observing that he had no time for anything else, and a glass of table-beer. Mr. Coles had come down Broad Street with him, as far as the inn door, when they shook hands and parted; Mr. Coles going back again. The waiter thought Mr. Ashton was not in the house above five minutes at the most. "And don't you know where he went to next?" urged the Squire. "No," the waiter replied. The impression on his mind was, that Mr. Ashton's business in Worcester was over, and that he was returning home again. The Squire moved slowly up Broad Street, more gloomy than an owl, his hands in his pockets, his nose blue. He boasted of his systematic abilities, as applied to seekings and searchings, but he knew no more what to be at next than the man in the moon. Turning up the Cross, he came to an anchor outside the linen-draper's shop; propping his back against the window, as if the hanging silks had offended him. There he stood staring up at St. Nicholas's clock opposite. "Tom," said he, virtually giving in, "I think we had better talk to the police. Here's one coming along now."