"But I'll make sure how Richard left his money. Hearsay's all very well, but matrimony on hearsay might turn out a sell. I'll get a copy of his will. But that'll be all right, I fancy. Gad, it's dry work thinking. I'll step across and have a tiddley at the Crown, and I might as well take little Polly that pair of gloves I promised her. Heigho, I guess I'll have to swear off lovely Pollys, at any rate till the honeymoon 's over." But before the sagacious Wimpenny abandoned himself to the delights of gin-and-bitters and the lively sallies of the lovely Polly, he dropped a confidential note to his London agent to procure a copy of Richard Tinker's will and such information as the archives of Somerset House could furnish to the interested or the curious as to the Residuary and Legacy accounts filed by the deceased's executor, Mr. Jabez Tinker, to wit. This missive despatched with his own hand Nehemiah turned his steps towards the Crown, feeling very much at peace with himself and fully entitled to bask in the sunshine of Polly's ready smile. On the way he chanced across the pastor of Aenon Chapel, who was devoting his morning to calling upon sundry of his flock and getting up an appetite for his mid-day dinner. "Good morning, Mr. Jones the very man I wanted to see. I've a crow to pull with you. Won't there be the usual school treat this Whitsuntide?" "Certainly, Mr. Wimpenny We'd a special prayer last meeting for a fine day." "Well, now, I go to Zion. But we Nonconformists are not so narrow as our Church friends, eh? So long as the good work goes on, that's the main thing isn't it?" "Most assuredly, Mr. Wimpenny, most assuredly. We're only tools in the great Worker's hands." "Quite so, Mr. Jones, quite so; my sentiments to a T, only better expressed. Now I know these efforts of the Sunday School cost money. I'm not good enough to be a teacher; but you must let me help in my own way. I hoped you would have called, as your predecessor did, and asked for a subscription, then we could have had a comfortable chat," and Nehemiah slipped a sovereign into the parson's palm. Now Mr. Jones had gone very recently over the list of subscribers to the various efforts and celebrations of Aenon Chapel, and flattered himself that he knew to a nicety the amount for which every inhabitant of Holmfirth "was good;" but he certainly could not remember to have seen Nehemiah Wimpenny's name for so much as a widow's mite. But perhaps the lawyer was one of those worthy men who do good by stealth and blush to find it known. So he had no qualms about pocketing the coin.