Nadin’s man paid no heed to his remonstrance, but in a trice cut the cord that tied the sack’s mouth, tipped it on its side, and let the grain pour out in a golden stream. A golden stream it proved to be, for in a twinkling something sparkled amid the corn, and here and there a sovereign glittered. To Clement and the officer who had read the riddle, this was no great surprise, though they viewed it with smiling satisfaction. But the old man, stuck dumb by the sight of the treasure that had been for a time in his power, turned a dirty white. He stood gazing at the vision of wealth, greed in his eyes, his hands working convulsively; and presently in a choked voice, “O, Lord! O, Lord!” he muttered. “You’ll not take t’ all! You’ll not take t’ all! . It were mine. I bought it.” “You came nigh to buying a pair o’ bracelets,” the officer replied grimly. “You with stolen property in your possession to talk o’—thank your stars your neck’s not to answer for it! No, we don’t need your help. You sheer off. We can count it without you. You’ve done pretty well as it is. Sheer off, unless you want the handcuffs on you!” The old ostler went, measuring the five pounds which he had made by the treasure he had lost, and finding no comfort in the possession of that which only an hour before had been a fortune to gloat over. But there was no help for it. He had to swallow his rage. The officer called after him to bring a sieve. He brought it sullenly, and his part was done. All that was left to him was a vision of gold that grew more dazzling with each telling of the tale. And very, very often he told it. When he was gone they gathered up the oats and riddled them through the sieve and recovered four hundred and thirty pounds. Thomas had taken a mere handful for his spending. As Clement counted it, sovereign by sovereign, into a knotted handkerchief which the other held, he, too, gloated over it, for it spelled success. But the money reckoned and the handkerchief knotted up, “And now for the man,” he said. But Nadin’s man shook his head. “We’d be weeks and not get him,” he said. “You’d best leave him to us, sir. We’ll bill him in Manchester and make the flash kens too hot for him. But there’s no knowing which way he’ll turn. May be to Liverpool, or as like as not to Aldersbury. Chaps like him are pigeons for homing. Back they go, though they know they’ll be taken.”