The search, too, for Daisy Banks ceased after the attack on Richard, for on all sides the police were met with the same mocking question, "Hev you asked Dick Glaire where she is?" In fact, it was now an acknowledged fact that Richard Glaire was answerable for her whereabouts, and no amount of denial had the slightest effect on the people of Dumford. Jacky Budd shook his head, looked red-nosed, and said nothing, but implied a great deal. In fact, Jacky was in great request, and was asked to take a good deal to drink in the shape of gills of ale by gossips wishful to know how matters went on at the Big House, where Richard Glaire was at first a prisoner perforce, and later on from choice. Everybody said that Jacky Budd was as great a "shack" as Sim Slee; but, like that worthy, it was his harvest time, and he was of great importance in the place. Not that he had much to report, but he dressed up his meagre bits of knowledge, and hinted that the vicar was forbidden the house. "Young Dicky said he'd shute him if he come on the premises again." "Why?" said some one. "Why," replied Jacky, with a wince, "because he's jealous of him; thinks he wants the owd woman." This report reached the ears of Miss Purley, who immediately put on her bonnet, and went down the street to Miss Primgeon, taking tea with that lady, whom she kissed affectionately for the first time since the vicar's arrival; and Miss Primgeon called her "dear," and kissed her also affectionately, confidences growing to such an extent that Miss Primgeon brought out and showed a pair of braces she had been embroidering for somebody; and, in return, Miss Purley displayed the crown of a smoking-cap in purple velvet, with "a dicky bird" in white beads, sitting on a crimson floss silk twig; and then both ladies called each other "dear" again, and shed tears on the top of the smoking-cap and over the braces, re-embroidering them as it were with pearls, while they talked of the terribly fragile nature of human hopes, the weakness of man, and the artfulness of elderly widows. The quantity of tea changed by a process of natural chemistry into tears that night was something astounding before the ladies separated. Sim Slee was in high feather, too, and reached home several nights in a glorified state, spending some little time before retiring to rest in performing strange acts in his stocking feet. Mrs Slee always waited up for him on her return from the vicarage, and generally gave him what he termed "a tongue thrashing for nowt." "Coming home in such a state!" she'd exclaim. "Wher ha' ye been goozening to now? What would the parson say?" "I don't care nowt for parson or anybody, and what do you mean with your state. I've ony been as far as the corner."