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"Begging pardon, sir, for being a gabbler," said Deborah, witheringly, "but know what he is we do a fine young gent with long descents and stone figgers in churches, as Bart knows. Beecot's his par's name, as is fighting with Mr. Paul by reason of contrariness and 'igh living, him being as stout as stout." "Perhaps you will explain, Sylvia," said Aaron, turning impatiently from the handmaiden.
"I should think her acceptance would depend upon the conditions." "They are very simple," said Mrs. Krill in her deep tones, and looking very straightly at Paul. "She is to marry you and go to America." Beecot's face did not change, since her hard eyes were on it. But he was puzzled under his mask of indifference. Why did this woman want Sylvia to marry him, and go into exile? He temporized.
"I'll give her my own name and then we'll see who will dare to say a word against my wife." Hurd stretched out his hand, and, grasping that of Beecot's, shook it warmly. "Upon my word you are a man, and that's almost better than being a gentleman," he said heartily. "I've heard everything from Mr. Pash, and I honor you Mr. Beecot I honor you." Paul stared.
Well," Pash broke down in despair seeing that his lies were not believed, "I think Mrs. Krill did steal the brooch." "Quite so, and murdered her husband!" Hurd went to the door and took Beecot's arm. "I only hope you won't be brought up as an accessory before the fact, Mr. Pash," and disregarding the lawyer's exclamations he dragged Paul outside. In Chancery Lane he spoke.
"Wot d'y want with me?" he demanded sulkily. "Where did you find that brooch?" "I prigged it from Mr. Beecot's pocket when he wos smashed." "Did Mr. Hay tell you to steal it?" "No, he didn't." "Then how did you know the brooch was in my pocket?" asked Paul. "I was a-dodgin' round the shorp," snapped Tray, "and I 'eard Mr. Norman an' Mr. Beecot a-talkin' of the brooch; Mr.
Beecot's name?" asked Hay, calmly. "Lor', sir. Didn't you and me pull him from under the wheels?" "Oh," said Grexon, suddenly enlightened, "were you the boy? Since you have washed your face I didn't recognize you. Well, Beecot, you look disturbed." "I have reason to.
That was Hay all over. He always said what he did not mean, and knew well that Beecot's uneasy pride shied at loans however small. Paul, the unsophisticated, took the shadow of generosity for its substance, and his dark face lighted up. "You're a brick, Hay," he declared, "but I don't want money.
Beecot beats me," and Deborah rubbed her nose. "I shall always be Sylvia to you." "Bless you, lady-bird, but don't ask me to live with Mr. Beecot's frantic par, else there'll be scratchings if he don't do proper what he should do and don't. So there." Deborah swung her arms like a windmill. "My mind's easy and dinner's waiting, for, love or no love, eat you must, to keep your insides' clockwork."
Tray, the boy, took it from Beecot's pocket when he met with that accident " "How do you know Tray?" "Because I met him at Pash's office several times when I was up. He ran errands for Pash before he became regularly employed. I saw that Tray was a devil, of whom I could make use. Oh, I know Tray, and I know also Hokar the Indian, who placed the sugar on the counter.
"Yes," said Paul, and replacing the case in his pocket went down the street with his friend. Then he determined to ask his opinion, and related the gist of Mrs. Beecot's letter. "And now the mater wires to have it back," he said. "I expect my father has found out that she has sent it to me, and is furious."
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