“’Fraid so. Well, don’t use it—show it if you like. Law’s law, and a live dog’s worth more than its hide. Ay, that’s Chetham’s. Queer old place, and—sharp’s the word, here we are,” as they turned off Long Mill Gate, and entered the yard of an old-fashioned house, over the door of which hung the sign of an apple-tree. The place was quiet, in comparison with the street they had left, and “Here’s Jerry,” the officer added, as they espied a young fellow, who in a corner of the enclosure was striving to raise to his shoulder a truss of hay. He ceased his efforts when he saw them. “We want a word with you,” said the officer. The man eyed them with dismay. “I never thout ’at he’d come to thee,” he said. “The chap you brought in this morning?” “Ay, sure.” “Happen yes and happen no,” the policeman replied. “What’s it all about?” “If he says I took his eauts he be a leear. I wurna wi’ the sack, not to say alone ’at is, not five minutes, and yo’ may look at t’ sack and see all’s theer as ever was! Never a handfu’ missing, tho’ the chap he cursed and swore an’ took on, the mout ha’ been eauts o’ gowd! He’s a leear iv he says I tetched ’em, but I never thout he’d t’ brass to come to thee.” “Why not, lad?” “’Cause i’ the end he let up and steared at t’ sack leek a steck pig, and then he fell a shriking ’i worse shap than ever, and away he goes as iv a dog had bit him and down t’ Long Gate hell for leather!” “Which way? I see. Did he take the oats?” “Not he, nor t’ bag. An after mekking setch a din about his eauts! I war no wi’ ’em five minutes.” The officer declined to commit himself. “Let us see them,” he said. Jerry led them to a tumble-down, black and white building at the rear of the yard, with lattice work in its crazy windows and an old date over the door. They followed him up a ladder and into a loft, where were a frowsy bed or two, some old pack-saddles, and two or three stools made out of casks sawn in two. On the floor in one place lay a heap of oats trampled this way and that, and beside the heap an empty sack. The officer picked up the sack, shook it and examined it. “What do you make of it?” Clement asked. “I don’t know what to make of it. Here, you, Jerry, fetch me a corn measure!” And when he had thus rid them of the lad, “He may be carrying out orders and telling a flash tale to put us off. Or he may be telling the truth, and in that case it looks as if someone had been a mite brighter than your man and cleared his stuff.” “But where is it?” “Ah! Just so, I’d like to know,” shaking his head. “Yes, Jerry, measure it back into the sack. How much is there?”