Mr. Banks expressed himself awkwardly, but his deduction was not at fault, and left his hearers under no doubt as to its significance. His eyes glistened. He could see the circulation of the _Nuttonby Gazette_ rising by thousands during the next few weeks, and at a time, too, when people were generally too busy to read newspapers, or buy extra copies for dispatch to friends in other parts of the country. What a thrice happy chance that this thing should have come to light on a Thursday evening! There was nothing in it yet that he dared telegraph to the morning newspapers in York and Leeds, but, by skillful manipulation, he could make plenty of it for his own sheet. "But it simply can't be true!" bleated Walker, senior, in a voice that quavered with sheer distress. "What isn't true?" demanded his son. "You don't doubt what I'm tellin' you, do you? Ask Tom Bland if Meg Garth isn't in Elmdale. He saw her, and she nodded at him through a window, but, when he asked about her, that pup, Armathwaite, swore she wasn't there, and that Bland had seen some other young lady. He couldn't take that line with me, because he was out when I called, and Meg and I were at it, hammer and tongs, when he came in." "At what, hammer and tongs?" gasped his father distractedly. "Arguin' about old Garth, she sayin' he was alive and well, and makin' out I was lyin' when I said he was dead." "Excuse me, gentlemen, I must be off," said Banks, and the man who was still sore from the grip of Armathwaite's hands and the thrust of Armathwaite's boot knew that the first direct assault on the stronghold of Meg Garth's pride had begun. "Look here, young fellow," said Walker, senior, recovering his wits with an effort, "you've set in motion more mischief than you reckon on. I wish to goodness you hadn't blurted out everything before Banks. You know what he is. He'll make a mountain out of a molehill."