"Edward Tredgold was in here alone this afternoon," she said,
significantly.

"No, no," said the captain, warmly. "Whoever has got it, it isn't Edward
Tredgold. I expect the talk about it has leaked out and somebody has
slipped in and taken it. I ought to have been more careful."

"He started when you said that you had burnt it," persisted Miss Drewitt,
unwilling to give up a theory so much to her liking. "You mark my words
if his father and Mr. Chalk and that Mr. Stobell don't go away for a
holiday soon. Good-night."

She kissed him affectionately under the left eye--a place overlooked by
his beard--and went upstairs again. The captain filled his pipe and,
resuming his chair, sat in a brown study until the clock of the
neighbouring church struck two.

It was about the same time that Mr. Chalk fell asleep, thoroughly worn
out by the events of the evening and a conversation with Mr. Stobell and
Mr. Tredgold, whom he had met on the way home waiting for him.

The opinion of Mr. Tredgold senior, an opinion in which Mr. Stobell fully
acquiesced, was that Mr. Chalk had ruined everything by displaying all
along a youthful impetuosity sadly out of place in one of his years and
standing. The offender's plea that he had thought it best to strike
while the iron was hot only exposed him to further contumely.

"Well, it's no good talking about it," said Mr. Tredgold, impatiently.
"It's all over now and done with."