He had been tracked by the number on the note--it was the first time he realised that notes had numbers. This particular note had been given by Sir Miles Bardon to his son as a part of his quarterly allowance, and though Ralph was far too unpractical to notice the number himself, his father had a habit of marking such things, and had written it down. The saddler at Rye had not heard of the theft when young Backfield handed over the note in payment of the harness bill. He had at the time remarked to his wife that old Ben seemed pretty flush with his money, but had thought no more of it till the matter was cried by the Town Crier that evening, after Robert and Pete had gone home. Then out of mere curiosity he had looked at the number on his note, and found it was the same as the Crier had announced. Early the next day he went to the Police Station, and as young Bardon now remembered lending his coat to Robert Backfield it was fairly easy to guess how the theft had been committed. The Squire regretted the matter profoundly, but it was too late now not to proceed with it, so he made it a hundred times worse by writing an apologetic letter to Reuben, and asking the magistrate to deal gently with the offender. Robert's pathetic story, and the tearful evidence of his sweetheart, gave him at once all the public sympathy; the blame was divided pretty equally between the Bardons and Backfield. Richard bitterly abused his father to Anne, as they met in the midst of the strife of their two families: "It's always the same, he keeps us under, and makes our lives a misery till we do something mad. He's only got himself to thank for this. We're all the slaves of his tedious farm----" "I should rather say 'abominable,'" Anne interrupted gently. "His abominable farm--he gets every bit of work out of us he can, till we're justabout desperate----" "Till we're absolutely desperate." "And he expects us to care for nothing but his vulgar ambitions. Oh Lord! I wish I was out of it!" "Perhaps you will be out of it some day." He shrugged. "How should I get free?" "Perhaps a friend might help you." He looked into her face, then suddenly crimsoned--then paled, to flush again: "Oh, ma'am, ma'am--if ever you cud help me get free--if ever ... oh, I--I'd sarve you all my life--I'd----" "Hush," she said gently--"that's still in the future--and remember not to say 'sarve.'" The Quarter Sessions were held early in December, and Robert's case came wedged between the too hopeful finances of a journeyman butcher and the woes of a farmer from Guldeford who had tried to drown himself and his little boy off the Midrips. Robert was sentenced to three years' imprisonment.