CHAPTER XLIII.

SIMON ALONE.


JENNINGS gathered himself up, from that Jew-of-Malta tumble
down the steps, less damaged by the fall than could have been imagined
possible; the fact being that his cat-like nature had stood him in good
stead--he had lighted on his feet; and nothing but a mighty dorsal
bruise bore witness to the prowess of a Jonathan.

But, if his body was comparatively sound, the inner man was bruised all
over: he crept back, and retreated to his room, in as broken and
despondent a frame of mind, as any could have wished to bless him
wherewithal. However, he still had one thing left to live for: his
hoard--that precious hoard within his iron box, and then--the crock of
gold. He took Sir John's threat about detaining, and so forth, as
merely future, and calculated on rendering it nugatory, by decamping
forthwith, chattels and all; but he little expected to find that the
idea had already been acted upon!

On that identical afternoon, when Simon had gone forth to insult Grace
Acton with his villanous proposals, Sir John, on returning from a ride,
had commanded his own seal to be placed on all Mr. Jennings's effects,
and the boxes to be forthwith removed to a place of safety: induced
thereto by innumerable proofs from every quarter that the bailiff had