‘If,’ argued Slivers to himself, as he pegged bravely along, ‘if Villiers wanted to get rid of the nugget he’d have come to me, for he knew I’d keep quiet and tell no tales. Well, he didn’t come to me, and there’s no one else he could go to. They’ve been looking for him all over the shop, and they can’t find him; he can’t be hiding or he’d have let me know; there’s only one explanation--he’s been murdered--but not for the gold--oh, dear no--for nobody knew he had it. Who wanted him out of the way?--his wife. Would she stick at anything?--I’m damned if she would. So it’s her work. The only question is did she do it personally or by deputy. I say deputy, ‘cause she’d be too squeamish to do it herself. Who would she select as deputy?--Vandeloup! Why?--‘cause he’d like to marry her for her money. Yes, I’m sure it’s him. Things look black against him: he stayed in town all night, a thing he never did before--leaves the supper at a quarter to twelve, so as to avoid suspicion; waits till Villiers comes out at two in the morning and kills him. Aha! my handsome jackadandy,’ cried Slivers, viciously, suddenly stopping and shaking his stick at an imaginary Vandeloup; ‘I’ve got you under my thumb, and I’ll crush the life out of you--and of her also, if I can;’ and with this amiable resolution Slivers resumed his way. Slivers’ argument was plausible, but there were plenty of flaws in it, which, however, he did not stop to consider, so carried away was he by his anger against Madame Midas. He stumped along doggedly, revolving the whole affair in his mind, and by the time he arrived at the Wattle Tree Hotel he had firmly persuaded himself that Villiers was dead, and that Vandeloup had committed the crime at the instigation of Mrs Villiers. He found Miss Twexby seated in the bar, with a decidedly cross face, which argued ill for anyone who held converse with her that day; but as Slivers was quite as crabbed as she was, and, moreover, feared neither God nor man--much less a woman--he tackled her at once. ‘Where’s your father?’ he asked, abruptly, leaning on his stick and looking intently at the fair Martha’s vinegary countenance. ‘Asleep!’ snapped that damsel, jerking her head in the direction of the parlour; ‘what do you want?’--very disdainfully. ‘A little civility in the first place,’ retorted Slivers, rudely, sitting down on a bench that ran along the wall, and thereby causing his wooden leg to stick straight out, which, being perceived by Billy, he descended from the old man’s shoulder and turned the leg into a perch, where he sat and swore at Martha. ‘You wicked old wretch,’ said Miss Twexby, viciously--her nose getting redder with suppressed excitement--‘go along with you, and take that irreligious parrot with you, or I’ll wake my par.’