“No,” said Miss Sally; “in this part of the business I fear you cannot help.  Read that, please.”

She spread open the telegraph form which she had been holding all this while, and laid it on the desk before him.

  “Breward, Grand Central Hotel, Bursfield.” 
  “’Regret to say children missing.  Supposed left
   Inistow Cove Tossell’s boat Saturday night.  Boat
   found ashore Clatworthy Beach.  Search parties along
   coast.  Will report any news.—­Chichester.’”

“When did you get this, ma’am, making so bold?”

“At nine this morning.  If you look, you will see the telegram was handed in at 8.37, and received here at 8.50—­is it not?  The sender is a Mr. Chichester, a clergyman and a friend of mine.”

“Aye,” said Mr. Hucks, after slowly examining the telegram and the office stamp.  He raised his formidable grey eyes and fixed them full on Miss Sally.

“Oh,” she said after awhile, but without blanching, “I see what’s in your mind.”

“No you don’t,” he answered abruptly.  “It did cross my mind, but it’s not there any longer.  You’re straight.  And you’re quality—­though maybe your kind don’t answer to the pictcher-books. . . .  Well, about this wire now. . . .  What’s your opinion?”

“Why, that the children are lost.”

“Meanin’ by that drowned—­or just missing?”

“From that message what must one conclude?”

“Well,” said Mr. Hucks slowly, after another perusal of the telegram, “I don’t conclude much from it; but from my knowledge of the gal-child, I jolly well conclude that they’re no more drowned than you or me.  They’ve just made another bolt for it, and the shipwrecked boat’s no more than a blind.”

“They were comfortable enough at Inistow Farm.  Why should they want to bolt?” Miss Sally urged.

“Because, ma’am, that gal has a business conscience developed to a degree I never struck yet in man or woman.  You’ve dealt open with me, and I’ll deal open with you.  I did help that pair to give Glasson the slip; not from any kindheartedness, I’d have you to know, if you’re thinkin’ to accuse me of it; but as a kind of by-speculation.  For I saw that dirty thief Glasson was mad to get the boy back, and it seemed to me there was likely some money in it.  I gave ’em their chance, yes; because it happened so, and I couldn’t see no other way.  Now, observe me—­that gal knew all the time I wasn’t doing it for my health, as you might say; she knew well enough I was just as hard as Glasson, though maybe in a different way.  She knew this, and as things turned out, she might have run off with the boy and snapped her fingers at me.  But does she?  Nothing o’ the sort.  She freezes to her bargain, same as if she’d all a lawyer’s knowledge and none of his conscience.  First, she clears me back every penny I’ve invested in Mortimer, and with interest; and I’m the first man that ever invested on that scamp and saw his money again.  When that’s paid she strikes out on a trail of her own—­but not to lose herself and the boy:  not she.  At every halt she reports herself and him; and by her last I was to write to her at a place called Holmness, which I posted a letter there yesterday.”