LITMIR.BIZ

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his horse, tied it up to a tree. Going into the house-place he bade the young labourer finish his dinner quickly and go to help the wagoner. "That's all in order," he said to Rhoda when they were alone. "Of course, as I said just now, he'll have to take the wheat. That's settled. Now—is there anything to show that he meant to be off?"

      "There's nothing," replied Rhoda, looking helplessly around her. "He just went out as he always did when he went to market—he'd his second-best suit on, and it's not over new. You don't think—"

      She paused, and looked at Taffendale with eyes in which he read some fear that had not come to full expression.

      "Think—what?" he asked.

      "Think that—that aught's happened to him?" she murmured.

      "What could happen to him?" said Taffendale.

      "Well, if he'd all that money on him," she said. "He might have been followed, and—"

      "Who knew that he'd all that money on him?" Taffendale retorted, with an impatient laugh. "No—he's gone. He'd planned it out. The thing is—where has he gone?"

      Rhoda shook her head. She glanced around her and lowered her voice.

      "That's not it, Mark," she said. "The real question is—why has he gone? He's—heard something."

      Taffendale made a sound and a movement indicative of impatience and vexation.

      "Supposing he had heard something, why should that make him go?" he exclaimed. "No, I tell you, he's planned it. I always considered him a deep and a sly customer, for all his softness. He's planned it all, and he's got a nice start and money in his pocket. And if he was deep enough to do that, he'll be deep enough to disappear altogether."

      Rhoda darted a swift look at him.

      "You think that?" she said quietly.

      "If you're asking me what I think," answered Taffendale, "I'll tell you straight out, my girl—I think Perris has been sharp enough to get together all the money he could, and that he's probably off to Canada or New Zealand or—somewhere. That's what I think."

      Again Rhoda gave him a swift glance.

      "And—me?" she said.

      Taffendale's face flushed, and he thrust his hands in his pockets and began to pace the room.

      "Just so!" he said. "And—me. And—a good many other folks. It's no use trying to make light of it There's going to be trouble, Rhoda. Or, rather, not going to be. It's here. And—"

      Just then a man passed the window, stumping heavily over the cobbles. The sharp rap of a stick sounded on the door, which Taffendale had closed when the young labourer went out. As Taffendale stood near the door, he opened it, and found himself confronting a man whom he knew as a drover employed by one of the market-town butchers. The man grinned.

      "Day, Mestur Taffendale, sir," he said, lifting his stick to his cap. "Anybody at home here, sir?"

      Taffendale made no answer. He beckoned Rhoda to the door, and the man again touched his cap.

      "Day, mum," he said. "I come for them two bullocks 'at Mestur Perris selled to our gaffer, yesterday. Here's t' order for 'livery."

      Rhoda took the greasy scrap of paper, and stared at Perris's handwriting as if she scarcely comprehended its meaning.

      "He said, did Mestur Perris, 'at he mightn't be at home this afternoon," continued the drover, "so I were to show that bit o' writin' to eyther you or t' lad, mum. I know t' bullocks when I see 'em, mum."

      Rhoda glanced at Taffendale. Taffendale nodded. "Very well," she said to the man. "You'll find them in the fold."

      Taffendale followed the drover down the yard. "How much did your master give Mr. Perris apiece for these bullocks, Tom?" he asked with affected carelessness. "I've got a few to sell if prices are decent."

      "He gev' sixteen-ten for one, and fifteen for t'other, sir," answered the drover. Then he laughed softly. "But yeer stock's a bit diff'rent fro' what this is, Mestur Taffendale," he said, slyly. "This is nobbut poor stuff, sir."

      Taffendale went back to the house, where Rhoda still stood staring about her as if she neither saw nor understood anything.

      "That's another thirty pounds he's got with him," he said, with a harsh laugh. "So he's gone off with nearly two hundred capital. And—and I don't see what's to stop him."

      "He found something out," said Rhoda. "He found something out. I'm sure that was it. He found something out!"

      Taffendale made no answer, and Rhoda presently turned to the window, and leaning over the sill looked over the flower-pots into the fold without. The wagoner was carrying away the wheat out of one gate, and the drover was driving off the bullocks from another.

Chapter XV

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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,

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