went up-stairs to the nursery to
tell you about; whom you came down to speak to; the same chap, I make no
doubt, whom you took into the nursery to have your talk out with; whom
Ailsie saw, and afterwards dreamed about; thinking, poor wench! she saw
him say his prayers, when nothing, I'll be bound, was farther from his
thoughts; who took Mrs. Chadwick's brooch, value ten pounds. Now, Norah!
Don't go off! I am as sure as that my name's Thomas Openshaw, that you
knew nothing of this robbery. But I do think you've been imposed on, and
that's the truth. Some good-for-nothing chap has been making up to you,
and you've been just like all other women, and have turned a soft place
in your heart to him; and he came last night a-lovyering, and you had him
up in the nursery, and he made use of his opportunities, and made off
with a few things on his way down! Come, now, Norah: it's no blame to
you, only you must not be such a fool again. Tell us," he continued,
"what name he gave you, Norah? I'll be bound it was not the right one;
but it will be a clue for the police."

Norah drew herself up. "You may ask that question, and taunt me with my
being single, and with my credulity, as you will, Master Openshaw. You'll
get no answer from me. As for the brooch, and the story of theft and
burglary; if any friend ever came to see me (which I defy you to prove,
and deny), he'd be just as much above doing such a thing as you yourself,
Mr. Openshaw, and more so, too; for I'm not at all sure as everything you
have is rightly come by, or would be yours long, if every man had his
own." She meant, of course, his wife; but he understood her to refer to
his property in goods and chattels.

"Now, my good woman," said he, "I'll just tell you truly, I never trusted
you out and out; but my wife liked you, and I thought you had many a good
point about you. If you once begin to sauce me, I'll have the police to
you, and get out the truth in a court of justice, if you'll not tell it
me quietly and civilly here. Now the best thing you can do is quietly to
tell me who the fellow is. Look here! a man comes to my house; asks for
you; you take him up-stairs, a valuable brooch is missing next day; we
know that you, and Mary, and cook, are honest; but you refuse to tell us
who the man is. Indeed you've told one lie already about him, saying no
one was here last night. Now I just put it to you, what do you think a
policeman would say to this, or a