"Just
mek yourselves scarce, all the lot o' yer! I don't know nothin' about
his money, an' I'll not have yer _insultin'_ me in me own place! Get
out o' my kitchen, if _yo'_ please!"

Saunders buttoned his coat.

"Sartinly, Mrs. Costrell, sartinly," he said, with emphasis. "Come
along, John. Yer must get Watson and put it in 'is hands. 'Ee's the
law, is Watson. Maybe as Mrs. Costrell 'ull listen to _'im_."

Mary Anne ran to Bessie in despair.

"Oh, Bessie, Bessie, my dear--don't let 'em get Watson; let 'em look
into 't theirselves--it'll be better for yer, my dear, it _will_."

Bessie looked from one to the other, panting. Then she turned back to
the table.

"_I_ don' care what they do," she said, with sullen passion. "I'm not
stannin' in any one's way, I tell yer. The more they finds out the
better I'm pleased."

The look of incipient laughter on Saunders's countenance became more
pronounced--that is to say, the left-hand corner of his mouth twitched
a little higher. But it was rare for him to complete the act, and he
was not in the least minded to do so now. He beckoned to John, and
John, trembling, took off his keys and gave them to him, pointing to
that which belonged to the treasure cupboard.

Saunders slipped it into the lock before him. It moved with ease,
backwards and forwards.

"H'm! that's strange," he said, taking out the key and turning it over
thoughtfully in his hand. "Yer didn't think as there were _another_
key in this 'ouse that would open your cupboard, did yer, Bolderfield?"

The old man sank weeping on a chair. He was too broken, too exhausted,
to revile Bessie any more.

"Yo' tell her, Muster Saunders," he said, "to gie it me back! I'll not
ast for all on it, but some on it, Muster Saunders--some on it. She
_can't_ 'a spent it. She must 'a got it somewhere. Yo' speak to her,
Muster Saunders. It's a crule thing to rob an old man like me--an' her
own mother's brother. Yo' speak to 'er--an' yo', too, Mary Anne."

He looked piteously from one to the other. But his misery only seemed
to goad Bessie to fresh fury. She turned upon him, arms akimbo.

"Oh! an' of course it must be _me_ as robs yer! It couldn't be nobody
else, could it? There isn't tramps, an' thieves, an' rogues--'undreds
of 'em--going about o' nights? Nary one, I believe yer! There isn't
another thief in Clinton Magna, nobbut Bessie Costrell, is ther? But
yer'll not blackguard me for nothin', I c