“And how can my Lady give that,” broke in Emlyn sharply, for she feared lest Cicely should commit herself.  “To-day she is but a homeless pauper, save for a few pounds in gold, and even if she should come to her own again, as your Worship knows, her first year’s profits are all promised.”

“Ah!” said the Doctor sadly, “doubtless the case is hard.  Only,” he added, with cunning emphasis, “a tale has just reached me that the Lady Harflete has wealth hidden away which came to her from her mother; trinkets of value and such things.”

Now Cicely coloured, for the man’s little eyes pierced her like gintlets, and her powers of deceit were very small.  But this was not so with Emlyn, who, as she said, could play thief to catch a thief.

“Listen, Sir,” she said, with a secret air, “you have heard true.  There were some things of value—­why should we hide it from you, our good friend?  But, alas! that greedy rogue, the Abbot of Blossholme, has them.  He has stripped my poor Lady as bare as a fowl for roasting.  Get them back from him, Sir, and on her behalf I say she’ll give you half of them, will you not, my Lady?”

“Surely,” said Cicely.  “The Doctor, to whom we owe so much, will be most welcome to the half of any movables of mine that he can recover from the Abbot Maldon,” and she paused, for the fib stuck in her throat.  Moreover, she knew herself to be the colour of a peony.

Happily the Commissioner did not notice her blushes, or if he did, he put them down to grief and anger.

“The Abbot Maldon,” he grumbled, “always the Abbot Maldon.  Oh! what a wicked thief must be that high-stomached Spaniard who does not scruple first to make orphans and then to rob them?  A black-hearted traitor, too.  Do you know that at this moment he stirs up rebellion in the north?  Well, I’ll see him on the rack before I have done.  Have you a list of those movables, Madam?”

Cicely said no, and Emlyn added that one should be made from memory.

“Good; I’ll see you again to-morrow or the next day, and meanwhile fear not, I’ll be as active in your business as a cat after a sparrow.  Oh, my rat of a Spanish Abbot, you wait till I get my claws into your fat back.  Farewell, my Lady Harflete, farewell.  Mistress Stower, I must away to deal with other priests almost as wicked,” and he departed, still muttering objurgations on the Abbot.

“Now, I think the time has come to trust Jacob Smith,” said Emlyn, when the door closed behind him, “for he may be honest, whereas this Doctor is certainly a villain; also, the man has heard something and suspects us.  Ah! there you are, Cousin Smith, come in, if you please, since we desire to talk with you for a minute.  Come in, and be so good as to lock the door behind you.”

Five minutes later all the jewels, whereof not one was wanting, lay on the table before old Jacob, who stared at them with round eyes.