"I've merely got a bit of an idea that it's a wedding-ring, not a brooch,
Mrs. Driver is after," said the farmer to the perplexed constable.

Mr. Bodfish looked from one to the other. "But you always keep yours on,
Lizzie, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," replied his niece, hurriedly; "but George has always
got such strange ideas. Don't take no notice of him."

Her uncle sat back in his chair, his face still wrinkled perplexedly;
then the wrinkles vanished suddenly, chased away by a huge glow, and he
rose wrathfully and towered over the match-making Mr. Negget. "How dare
you?" he gasped.

Mr. Negget made no reply, but in a cowardly fashion jerked his thumb
toward his wife.

"Oh! George! How can you say so?" said the latter.

"I should never ha' thought of it by myself," said the farmer; "but I
think they'd make a very nice couple, and I'm sure Mrs. Driver thinks
so."

The ex-constable sat down in wrathful confusion, and taking up his
notebook again, watched over the top of it the silent charges and
countercharges of his niece and her husband.

"If I put my finger on the culprit," he asked at length, turning to his
niece, "what do you wish done to her?"