"When I got to Crabb Cot this morning, sir, Mr. Todhetley was on the point of starting for Worcester in the phaeton with his son and Johnny Ludlow," went on Tom. "After listening to the news I took him, he naturally wished me to go also, and I did so. He was in a fine way about it." "But you need not have stayed at Worcester all day." "Well, being there, I thought--after I had conferred with Corles at his office upon this other matter--I should do well to go on to Oddingley and see William Smith about that troublesome business of his; so I hired a gig and went there; and I've just got back by train, walking from Crabb," answered Tom Chandler. "Had any dinner?" "Oh, yes, thank you; and some tea also at Shrub Hill station, while waiting for the train: this weather makes one thirsty. No, thank you, sir," as Mr. Paul pushed the decanter towards him; "wine would only make me still more thirsty than I am." "I never saw you looking so hot," remarked the old lawyer. Tom laughed, and rubbed his face. The walk from Crabb was no light one: and, of course, with Miss Emma at the end of it, he had come at a steaming pace. "Well, and what did you and Todhetley make of the matter?" It was the day, as may readily be understood, when we had gone to Worcester to have it out at the silversmith's. Tom Chandler recounted all that passed, and repeated the description given to himself by Stephenson of the fellow who had changed the bank-note. Mr. Paul received it with an impatient and not at all orthodox word, meant for Richard MacEveril. "But I cannot feel sure, no, nor half sure, that it was MacEveril," said Tom Chandler. "What have your feelings got to do with it?" asked old Paul, in his crusty way. "It seems to me, the description you give would be his very picture." "Stephenson says he had blue eyes. Now Dick's are brown." "Eyes be sugared," retorted the lawyer. "As if any man could swear to a chance customer's eyes after seeing them for just a minute or two! It was Dick MacEveril; he caught up the letter as it lay on Hanborough's desk in the office and decamped with it; and went off the next day to Worcester to get the note changed, as bold as though he had been Dick Turpin!" Still Tom was not convinced. He took out the pencil he had bought and showed it to Mr. Paul. "Ay," said the old gentleman, "it's a pretty thing, and perhaps he may get traced by it. Do you forget, Mr. Thomas, that the young rascal absented himself all that day from the office on pretext of going to the picnic at Mrs. Cramp's, and that, as you told me, he never made his appearance at the picnic until late in the afternoon?" "I know," assented Tom. "He said he had been to the pigeon match."