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Justice went away from the Limepits with a determination to hold his tongue. He would bide his time. He had made a mistake: he had been over-hasty. But he would wait; he would watch. He had more then an ordinary share of commonsense, and he believed that he would win more in the end by waiting than by making a hurried attack. He walked home thinking over his future plans: there was a friend of his, a sharp-witted attorney's clerk, in the market-town, whom he would consult; they would put their heads together over this affair, with a view to the utter confounding of Mr. Mark Taffendale. In the meantime he would not say a word of what he knew to any man or woman in Martinsthorpe; he would preserve such a silence as he was rarely accustomed to keep. But when the gamekeeper went down to the Dancing Bear that evening for his nightly recreation, he speedily became aware that there was something afoot. At the cross-roads, in front of the inn, the groups of men and lads which congregated there when the day's work was over were obviously moved and excited by unusual news; a buzz and cackle of gossip hovered round and ran from one to the other. The young labourer who had replaced Pippany Webster had known no reason for keeping his tongue quiet, and he had talked freely since his return to the village from the scene of his labours.

Justice stopped a man who was slouching across the open space to the back-door of the inn.

"What's the matter, Jack—what're they talking about?" he asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

"Nay, they say 'at Perris, yonder, up at t' Cherry-trees, has run away," he answered. "Bill Tatten, him 'at works theer since Pippany wor' turned away, browt t' news. Selled all t' stuff offen t' place, and seemin'ly ta'en his departure, as it wor."

Justice said nothing in reply to this, and the informant, finding him silent, passed on to the kitchen wherein those labourers who had twopence to spend congregated around the deal tables. The gamekeeper wanted time to think before joining his own coterie. He began to wish more ardently than ever that he had not been in such haste to wait upon Mr. Taffendale that morning. And before he went into the Dancing Bear out of the darkness which was fast stealing over the village, he had resolved to know nothing and to have heard no more than what had just been told him.

In a certain room of the inn, between parlour and kitchen, the room in which Perris and his companions had made merry on the rent-day, a select assemblage of the Martinsthorpe men met every evening. At that hour of the day the kitchen was given up to the labourers; the parlour was reserved to one or two of the better class of farmers, and to folk who chanced to be riding or driving along the high-road. In the intermediate room assembled the blacksmith, the carpenter, the miller, and the farmers of Perris's standing; with these the gamekeeper, at first received with some reserve and shyness because of his south country origin and vastly different speech, had finally made himself at home through his habits of good-fellowship and his ability to tell a good tale and sing a good song. There were four or five of the usual fraternity there when he walked in on this occasion, and he saw at once they were discussing Perris's disappearance as eagerly as the men and lads outside. Justice, not wishing to show himself entirely ignorant, threw out a question as he dropped into his accustomed seat.

"What's all this about Perris, gentlemen?" he asked. "I just heard that he's made himself what the Latin scholars term non est; which means that he isn't where he should be—at home."

The blacksmith, who by virtue of seniority occupied the best seat by the fire, took his churchwarden pipe out of his mouth and spat into the glowing coals.

"Ne'er mind what t' Latin scholards says, nor t' Greek scholards, neyther," he observed. "I know what t' English on it is. Happen I heerd summat about it before onnybody Martinsthorpe."

"Well, what?" asked Justice, leisurely filling his pipe.

"I were i' t' kitchen theer hevin' a glass when yon man o' Mestur Mawson's come in for a bit o' bread-and-cheese," continued the blacksmith. "An' sits hissen down at t' side o' me. An' he says, says he, 'I think theer's summat queer up yonder at t' Cherry-trees,' he says. 'How so?' says I. 'Why,' he says, 'Perris, he sell'd our maister his new wheat yesterda', and it wor settled 'at I should fetch it to-day,' he says, 'and when I got theer just now,' he says, 'Perris worn't theer, and his wife knew nowt about it, and I made out 'at she's niver set ees on him sin' yesterda',' he says. 'An' she wodn't let me tak' t' wheat till she'd sent for Mestur Taffendale to tak' his counsel on t' matter.' 'Did yeer maister pay for t' wheat?' says I. 'Aye, he did, an' i' my presence, over a hundred pound,' he says, 'an' I hev Perris's orders for t' delivery i' case he worn't at home, an' here it is,' he says, showin' t' bit o' paper. 'Why, then, ye're all reight,' I says, 'whatever Taffendale counsels or doesn't counsel.'"

"Aye, it's reight, is that," observed the carpenter, with an air of great wisdom. "So long as Mestur Mawson hed paid for t' stuff, his man hed a reight to fetch it."

"An' did Taffendale come to t' Cherry-trees then?" asked the miller. "An' what hed he to do wi' it, when all's said an' done? I niver heerd 'at t' Perrises wor owt to Taffendale."

The blacksmith again spat into the fire and wagged his head.

"Now, then, ye wait a bit!" he said. "I hevn't tell'd all t' tale yet. That's nobbut t' first chapter, like. I heerd what happened when Mestur Mawson's man went back to t' Cherry-trees. Taffendale was there, talkin' to t' wife ower t' orchard hedge. An', of course, theer wor nowt to be said—t' man wor in his reights to carry t' wheat away wi' him, and so Taffendale said. An' while he wor agate, this here man o Mestur Mawson's, gettin' t' wheat out o' t' granary, wi' yon theer Bill Tatten to help him, up comes a chap to drive off two young beasts, bullocks, 'at he said Perris hed Belled to his gaffer, Claybourne, t' butcher, t' day afore. An' they hed to go an' all, 'cos they'd been duly settled for. So Perris wor none wi'out brass i' his pocket, wheeriver he's gone. An' that's t' reight truth about t' tale, 'cos I hed it all fro' Bill Tatten hissen—he come into my place wi' a brokken ploo-share as he wor goin' home to-neet, and he telled me all about it. An' he said 'at Taffendale an' Perris's wife wor talkin' t' house for hours 'at after t' men had gone away wi' t' wheat and t' bullocks."

In the silence which followed this deliverance, Justice rang the bell and ordered a glass of whisky.

"I expect Mrs. Perris sent for Mr. Taffendale because he's their nearest neighbour," he observed, when the whisky had been brought and the door closed again upon the conclave. "His place isn't so far off theirs."

The blacksmith snorted, and gave Justice a look expressive of North Country contempt for South Country inability to see through brick walls.

"Ah!" he said. "Du yer? Well, I expect nowt o' t' sort. I can see a bit further nor t' end o' mi nose, I can!"

"Well, and what do you see?" asked Justice, taking his snub good-humouredly. "Let's be knowing."

The blacksmith leaned forward and looked slyly round the circle of expectant faces.

"I know nowt!" he said. "But I'll tell yer what I think. I think 'at Taffendale's been helpin' them theer! That's what I think. Helpin' 'em, I say."

"What, wi' brass?" exclaimed the miller. "Wi' brass?"

"Wi' brass! What else should he help em' wi'?" replied the blacksmith. "Now, ye look here. Theer's more nor one i' Martinsthorpe knows how it wor wi' Perris just afore t' last rent-day. Them as iver looked ower a hedge-top at t' Cherry-trees knows 'at he'd scarce owt left on t' place. And only two days afore t' rent-day itself, yon theer Pippany Webster browt a hoss to be shod at my place, and he tell'd me 'at theer worn't more nor one feed left for t' horses and t' pigs, and nowt much beside, and at' so far as he could see, Perris wor on his varry last legs for brass. And yit, on t' rent-day, down comes Perris as large as life, and pays up as if he wor a millionaire Ye see'd him, all on yer."

"Aye, it's reight, is that," murmured the conclave in unanimous chorus. "He 'livered his brass up, reight enough, did t' man."

The blacksmith thumped the table.

"Aye, but wheer did 'a get t' brass!" he demanded. "Now, I'll tell yer summat 'at'll happen oppen yer ees! Yon theer dowter o' mine, Lucilla, wor Mestur Taffendale's sarvice at that time, and a neet or two afore t' rent-day, she heerd som'dy knock loud at t' front-door, when her and t' housekeeper, and t' other sarvent lass had gone to bed. And she thowt to hersen 'at it were a queer time o' night for onnybody to call. Howsomiver, she heerd Taffendale go and open t' door and she heerd him let som'dy in, and after some time she heerd him let som'dy out, and she looked out o' t' cha'mer window, did our Lucilla, and then she see'd—cause t' parlour lamp and t' hall lamp shone full on 'em—who'd yer think she see'd walkin' down t' garden path wi' Taffendale?"

The conclave shook its collective head in wondering silence, and the blacksmith wagged his own in triumph. He again thumped the table, and bent forward to smile more knowingly.

"It wor Perris's wife!" he said. "Perris's wife! Ye mind that theer. Perris's wife!"

The company sighed deeply. Nobody seemed inclined to speak. But Justice presently found his voice.

"It's a bit dangerous, saying things like that, isn't it?" he said. "I mean—in a public way?"

The blacksmith turned on his commentator with scorn.

"Dangerous! What's dangerous?" he demanded. "Theer's nowt dangerous about speykin' t' truth, is there?—we don't reckon it so i' Yorkshire, onnyway, whativer ye South Country folk may do! We speyk t' truth, and shame t' Devil—that's what we do, keeper, an' ye tak' a bit o' notice. My dowter's free to say what she saw wi' her own ees, isn't she? I tell yer 'at she see'd Perris wife i' Taffendale garden that neet, and she'd been hafe-an-hour alone wi' him i' t' parlour. An' that my dowter 'll stand to, if need be. So theer!"

"Shoo's a truthful young woman, is Lucilla," observed the carpenter, with great solemnity. "Shoo wodn't say nowt 'at worn't reight."

"Noe!" said Lucilla's father stoutly. "If I found onny dowter o' mine sayin' owt 'at worn't reight, I'd gi' her bell-tinker wi' my strap! Of course, shoo said what wor reight. An' that worrn't t' only time 'at Perris's wife wor theer at t' Limepits late at neet, 'cause she wor theer agen a piece after, and our Lucilla see'd Taffendale go out wi' her, and he didn't come home for two houis that neet, and then it wor after twelve o'clock when he did come home. An' if ye ax me, I say 'at Taffendale's been helpin' them theer wi' brass, and I could like to know what's he's hed i' exchange for it—now then!"

Justice's sly spirit was rejoicing with him. A little more talk of this sort in the village, a little more frank, and brutal, and eminently Yorkshire expression of opinion, and Taffendale would find a hornets' nest about his ears. Even if he, Justice, gained nothing by it himself in a pecuniary sense, he would have the gratification of knowing that he was revenged for the coldness and insolence with which Mr. Taffendale of the Limepits had always treated him. So he drank his whisky and smoked his pipe, and for once played the part of quiet listener.

"All t' same," observed the miller, after a pause, "all t' same, I don't see what all that's gotten to do wi' this sudden disappearance o' Perris's."

"Don't yer?" said the blacksmith. "Happen yer don't. But ye wait a bit, mi lad. Theer's summat 'll come out. A man doesn't lig his hands on all t' brass he can sam up, and then tak' hissen off wi'out a word to onnybody, unless he's some reason. Ye mind that."

One of the small farmers, who had steadily consumed cold gin, and preserved an attentive silence while the blacksmith talked, now broke in upon the discussion, prefacing his remarks with a sly smile.

"Why it seems a varry queer thing to me, gentlemen, 'at Perris an' yon theer Pippany Webster should ha' disappeared 'at about t' same time," he observed. "Theer is, of course, what they terms coincidences, but I niver heerd tell o' one occurrin' i' a little out-o'-t'-way place like Martinsthorpe before."

"Didn't yer?" grunted the blacksmith contemptuously. "A'but, them things occurs onny wheer. T' size o' t' place hes nowt to do wi' it. An' I don't believe 'at it is onny coincidence, as t' term goes, i' this case. It's my opinion theer's a plot o' some sort—a consperracy."

The miller started.

"What, summat like t' Gunpowder Plot!" he exclaimed. "Ye wodn't go so far as to say it resembled that theer?"

"Niver ye mind," said the blacksmith. "Ye'll see 'at we're nobbut at t' beginnin' o' this here mystery."

"That's t' reight word," said the carpenter. "Aye, it's indeed t' reight word, is that theer. Mystery! That's t' reight word, gentlemen—Mystery!"

To make some endeavour to solve the mystery, there presently appeared at Cherry-trees John William Perris, to whom Rhoda had written asking if he had any news of Abel. He arrived in the mourning garments which he had put on in the expectation of hearing that his Uncle George had left him at least a thousand pounds, and his countenance was doleful and perplexed. And after he had spent an hour with Rhoda, who had taken Tibby Graddige into her house to keep her company, he walked across to the Limepits to call upon Taffendale. Taffendale chanced to meet him outside and took him into the parlour and gave him spiritual refreshment, inwardly wondering if it would be possible to find anywhere in the world two brothers who looked so slackly set up and so obviously unfit as Abel and John William Perris. He offered John William a cigar, and left him to open the conversation.

"I'm sore put to it to understand how it is that my poor brother's disappeared like this here, Mr. Taffendale, sir," said John William Perris. "Us Perrises has always been a very straight-livin' lot, sir, ever since I can remember, and by all I can gather o' what happened to us i' previous ages. It's a very surprisin' matter, sir, is this here. Of course, I understand, Mr. Taffendale, that you've been uncommon good to 'em, and that Abel was beginnin' to prosper a bit, thanks to you, and it makes it all the more unaccountable, as it were. How would you be for reckonin' of it up, sir?"

"I'm not for reckoning it up at all," answered Taffendale. "The facts are plain enough. Your brother realised as much money as he could on what he had to sell, and off he went with the money. That's the long and the short of it."

John William Perris rubbed his sandy stubble which grew on his weak chin with the tip of a black-gloved finger.

"Yes, I expect that's the long and the short of it, sir," he said. "You couldn't put it no straighter, Mr. Taffendale. But—what's to become of Abel's wife, sir?"

Taffendale made no answer.

"Because, you see, Mr. Taffendale, things can't bide as they are," continued John William. "They'll develop, as it were, in some way."

Taffendale was as well aware of that fact as his visitor, and when he had gone he repeated the phrase to himself, and cursed the evil of unfortunate circumstances, which was growing tighter and stronger. He felt that there was trouble in the air. But he knew nothing definite, until an old farmer from Martinsthorpe drew him aside one day in the market-town.

"Mark," he said, "I'm afraid there's going to be unpleasantness for you. Do you know what they're saying?"

Taffendale turned on him in a fury of irritation.

"Saying? Who's saying?" he exclaimed. "What're they saying?"

"They're saying that you and Perris's wife were carrying on before he went off, and that that's why he went off," said the old man, eyeing him steadily. "It's all over the village."

Taffendale turned white with anger.

"Damn them!—let them talk!" he said. "Do you think I care what Martinsthorpe folk say? Let them talk!"

But as he went down the market-place he caught sight of Justice, as he walked across and confronted him.

"Now, then, you!" he said, with concentrated fury in his tone. "You've been talking. I warned you I'd break you if you talked. You've been talking, I say, damn you!"

Justice drew himself up and looked the lime-burner squarely in the face.

"I've never opened my lips on the matter, Mr. Taffendale," he said. "There was no need, sir. I found out that others knew more than I did."

And he passed on, leaving Taffendale more furious than ever.