“I’ve merely got a bit of an idea that it’s a wedding-ring, not a brooch, Mrs. Driver is after,” said the farmer to the perplexed constable. Mr. Bodfish looked from one to the other. “But you always keep yours on, Lizzie, don’t you?” he asked. “Yes, of course,” replied his niece, hurriedly; “but George has always got such strange ideas. Don’t take no notice of him.” Her uncle sat back in his chair, his face still wrinkled perplexedly; then the wrinkles vanished suddenly, chased away by a huge glow, and he rose wrathfully and towered over the match-making Mr. Negget. “How dare you?” he gasped. Mr. Negget made no reply, but in a cowardly fashion jerked his thumb toward his wife. “Oh! George! How can you say so?” said the latter. “I should never ha’ thought of it by myself,” said the farmer; “but I think they’d make a very nice couple, and I’m sure Mrs. Driver thinks so.” The ex-constable sat down in wrathful confusion, and taking up his notebook again, watched over the top of it the silent charges and countercharges of his niece and her husband. “If I put my finger on the culprit,” he asked at length, turning to his niece, “what do you wish done to her?” Mrs. Negget regarded him with an expression which contained all the Christian virtues rolled into one. “Nothing,” she said, softly. “I only want my brooch back.” The ex-constable shook his head at this leniency. “Well, do as you please,” he said, slowly. “In the first place, I want you to ask Mrs. Driver here to tea to-morrow—oh, I don’t mind Negget’s ridiculous ideas—pity he hasn’t got something better to think of; if she’s guilty, I’ll soon find it out. I’ll play with her like a cat with a mouse. I’ll make her convict herself.” “Look here!” said Mr. Negget, with sudden vigour. “I won’t have it. I won’t have no woman asked here to tea to be got at like that. There’s only my friends comes here to tea, and if any friend stole anything o’ mine, I’d be one o’ the first to hush it up.” “If they were all like you, George,” said his wife, angrily, “where would the law be?” “Or the police?” demanded Mr. Bodfish, staring at him. “I won’t have it!” repeated the farmer, loudly. “I’m the law here, and I’m the police here. That little tiny bit o’ dirt was off my boots, I dare say. I don’t care if it was.” “Very good,” said Mr. Bodfish, turning to his indignant niece; “if he likes to look at it that way, there’s nothing more to be said. I only wanted to get your brooch back for you, that’s all; but if he’s against it—” “I’m against your asking Mrs. Driver here to my house to be got at,” said the farmer. “O’ course if you can find out who took the brooch, and get it back again anyway, that’s another matter.” Mr. Bodfish leaned over the table toward his niece.