?"

"Very much better for him, because he'll go crazy if she don't."

"And for her too. We can't tell what is going on inside her breast.
I believe that she is making a great effort because she thinks it is
right. You will be kind to her when she comes?"

"Certainly I will,--for Harry's sake--and her own."

But in truth the Vicar at this moment was not in a good humour.
He was becoming almost tired of his efforts to set other people
straight, so great were the difficulties that came in his way. As he
had driven into his own gate he had met Mr. Puddleham, standing in
the road just in front of the new chapel. He had made up his mind to
accept the chapel, and now he said a pleasant word to the minister.
Mr. Puddleham turned up his eyes and his nose, bowed very stiffly,
and then twisted himself round, without answering a word. How was
it possible for a man to live among such people in good humour and
Christian charity?

In the evening he was sitting with his wife in the drawing-room
discussing all these troubles, when the maid came in to say that
Constable Toffy was at the door.

Constable Toffy was shown into his study, and then the Vicar followed
him. He had not spoken to the constable now for some months,--not
since the time at which Sam had been liberated; but he had not a
moment's doubt when he was thus summoned, that something was to be
said as to the murder of Mr. Trumbull. The constable put his hand up
to his head, and sat down at the Vicar's invitation, before he began
to speak.

"What is it, Toffy?" said the Vicar.

"We've got 'em at last, I think," said Mr. Toffy, in a very low, soft
voice.

"Got whom;--the murderers?"

"Just so, Mr. Fenwick; all except Sam Brattle,--whom we want."

"And who are the men?"

"Them as we supposed all along,--Jack Burrows, as they call the
Grinder, and Lawrence Acorn as was along with him. He's a Birmingham
chap, is Acorn. He's know'd very well at Birmingham. And then, Mr.
Fenwick, there's Sam. That's all as seems to have been in it. We
shall want Sam, Mr. Fenwick."

"You don't mean to tell me that he was one of the murderers?"

"We shall want him, Mr. Fenwick."

"Where did you find the other men?"

"They did get as far as San Francisco,--did the others. They haven't
had a bad game of it,--have they, Mr. Fenwick? They've had more than
seven months of a run. It was the 31st of August as Mr. Trumbull was
murdered, and here's the 15th of April, Mr. Fenwick. There a