"But they've found the wallet!" faltered Hauchecorne.

"None of that, old boy; there's one who finds it, and there's one who
carries it back. I don't know just how you did it, but I understand
you."

The peasant was fairly stunned. He understood at last. He was accused
of having sent the wallet back by a confederate, an accomplice.

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner, but left the inn amid a chorus of
jeers.

He returned home, shamefaced and indignant, suffocated by wrath, by
confusion, and all the more cast down because, with his Norman
cunning, he was quite capable of doing the thing with which he was
charged, and even of boasting of it as a shrewd trick. He had a
confused idea that his innocence was impossible to establish, his
craftiness being so well known. And he was cut to the heart by the
injustice of the suspicion.

Thereupon he began once more to tell of the adventure, making the
story longer each day, adding each time new arguments, more forcible
protestations, more solemn oaths, which he devised and prepared in his
hours of solitude, his mind being wholly engrossed by the story of the
string. The more complicated his defence and the more subtle his
reasoning, the less he was believed.

"Those are a liar's reasons," people said behind his back.