The newspapers had a field-day on Tuesday.

Now that the Franchise affair was a court case, it could no longer provide a crusade for either the Ack–Emma or the Watchman— though the Ack–Emma did not fail to remind its gratified readers that on such and such a date they had said so and so, a plain statement which was on the surface innocent and unexceptionable but was simply loaded with the forbidden comment; and Robert had no doubt that on Friday the Watchman would be taking similar credit to itself, with similar discretion. But the rest of the Press, who had not so far taken any interest in a case that the police had no intention of touching, woke with a glad shout to report a case that was news. Even the soberer dailies held accounts of the court appearance of the Sharpes, with headings like: EXTRAORDINARY CASE, and: UNUSUAL CHARGE. The less inhibited had full descriptions of the principal actors in the case, including Mrs. Sharpe’s hat and Betty Kane’s blue outfit, pictures of The Franchise, the High Street in Milford, a school friend of Betty Kane, and anything else that was even approximately relevant.

And Robert’s heart sank. Both the Ack–Emma and the Watchman, in their different ways, had used the Franchise affair as a stunt. Something to be used for its momentary worth and dropped tomorrow. But now it was a national interest, reported by every kind of paper from Cornwall to Caithness; and showed signs of becoming a cause célèbre.

For the first time he had a feeling of desperation. Events were hounding him, and he had no refuge. The thing was beginning to pile up into a tremendous climax at Norton and he had nothing to contribute to that climax; nothing at all. He felt as a man might feel if he saw a stacked heap of loaded crates begin to lean over towards him and had neither retreat nor a prop to stay the avalanche.

Ramsden grew more and more monosyllabic on the telephone, and less and less encouraging. Ramsden was sore. “Baffled” was a word used in boys’ detective stories; it had not until now had even the remotest connection with Alec Ramsden. So Ramsden was sore, monosyllabic, and dour.

The one bright spot in the days that followed the court at Milford was provided by Stanley, who tapped on his door on Thursday morning, poked his head in, and seeing that Robert was alone came in, pushing the door to with one hand and fishing in the pocket of his dungarees with the other.

“Morning,” he said. “I think you ought to take charge of these. Those women at The Franchise have no sense at all. They keep pound notes in tea-pots and books and what not. If you’re looking for a telephone number you’re as likely as not to find a ten-shilling note marking the butcher’s address.” He fished out a roll of money and solemnly counted twelve ten-pound notes on to the desk under Robert’s nose.

“A hundred and twenty,” he said. “Nice, ain’t it?”

“But what is it?” Robert asked, bewildered.

“Kominsky.”

“Kominsky?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t have anything on! After the old lady giving us the tip herself. Mean to say you forgot about it!”

“Stan, I haven’t even remembered lately that there was such a thing as the Guineas. So you backed it?”

“At sixties. And that’s the tenth I told her she was on to, for the tip.”

“But — a tenth? You must have been plunging, Stan.”

“Twenty pounds. Twice as much as my normal ceiling. Bill did a bit of good too. Going to give his missus a fur coat.”

“So Kominsky won.”

“Won by a length and a half on a tight rein; and was that a turn up for the book!”

“Well,” Robert said, stacking the notes and banding them, “if the worst comes to the worst and they end up bankrupt, the old lady can always do a fair trade as a tipster.”

Stanley eyed his face for a moment in silence, apparently not happy about something in his tone. “Things are pretty bad, ‘m?” he said.

“Fierce,” said Robert, using one of Stanley’s own descriptions.

“Bill’s missus went to the court,” Stan said, after a pause. “She said she wouldn’t believe that girl even if she told her there were twelve pennies in a shilling.”

“Oh?” Robert said, surprised. “Why?”

“Much too good to be true, she said she was. She said no girl of fifteen was ever as good as that.”

“She’s sixteen now.”

All right, sixteen. She said she was fifteen once and so were all her girl friends, and that wide-eyed-wonder didn’t fool her for a moment.”

“I’m very much afraid it will fool a jury.”

“Not if you had an all-woman jury. I suppose there’s no way of wangling that?”

“Not short of Herod measures. Don’t you want to give this money to Mrs. Sharpe yourself, by the way?”

“Not me. You’ll be going out there sometime today, and you can give it to her if you like. But see you get it back and put it in the bank or they’ll be picking it out of flower vases years hence and wondering when they put that there.”

Robert smiled as he put the money away in his pocket to the sound of Stanley’s departing feet. Endlessly unexpected, people were. He would have taken it for granted that Stan would have revelled in counting those notes out in front of the old lady. But instead he had turned shy. That tale of money in tea-pots was just a tale.

Robert took the money out to The Franchise in the afternoon, and for the first time saw tears in Marion’s eyes. He told the tale as Stanley had told it — tea-pots and all — and finished: “So he made me his deputy”; and it was then that Marion’s eyes had filled.

“Why did he mind about giving it to us?” she said, fingering the notes. “He’s not usually so — so ——”

“I think it may be that he considers that you need it now, and that that makes it a delicate affair instead of a matter-of-fact one. When you gave him the tip you were just the well-off Sharpes who lived at The Franchise, and he would have turned over the proceeds to you with éclat. But now you are two women out on bail of ￡200 each in your personal recognizances and of a similar sum by one surety on behalf of you each; to say nothing of having the expenses of a counsel to come; and are therefore, I think, in Stan’s mind not people that one can hand over money to easily.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Sharpe, “not all my tips have had a margin of a length-and-a-half on the right side. But I don’t deny that I am very glad to see the percentage. It was very kind of the boy.”

“Should we keep as much as ten per cent?” Marion asked doubtfully.

“That was the arrangement,” Mrs. Sharpe said equably. “If it hadn’t been for me he would be short by the amount of a bet on Bali Boogie at this moment. What is a Bali Boogie, by the way?”

“I am glad you came,” Marion said, ignoring her mother’s quest for education, “because something unexpected has happened. My watch has come back.”

“You mean you’ve found it?”

“No, oh, no. She sent it back through the post. Look!”

She produced a small, very dirty, white cardboard box, which contained her watch with the blue enamel face and the wrapping that had been round the watch. The wrapping was a square of pinkish tissue paper with a circular stamp reading SUN VALLEY, TRANSVAAL, and had evidently started life embracing an orange. On a torn piece of paper was printed: I DON’T WANT NONE OF IT. The capital I was dotted like a small letter, after the fashion of illiterates.

“Why do you think she turned squeamish about it?” Marion wondered.

“I don’t for a moment think she did,” Robert said. “I couldn’t imagine that girl ever relinquishing anything that her hand had closed over.”

“But she did. She sent it back.”

“No. Someone sent it back. Someone who was frightened. Someone with a rudimentary conscience, too. If Rose Glyn had wanted to be rid of it she would have thrown it into a pond, without a second thought. But X wants to be rid of it and to make restitution at the same time. X has both a bad conscience and a frightened soul. Now who would have a bad conscience about you just now? Gladys Rees?”

“Yes, of course you are right about Rose. I should have thought of that. She never would have sent it back. She would have put her heel on it sooner. You think perhaps she gave it to Gladys Rees?”

“That might explain a lot. It might explain how Rose got her to court to back up that ‘screaming’ story. I mean, if she had been the receiver of stolen goods. When you come to think of it, Rose could have very little chance of wearing a watch that the Staples people must quite often have seen on your wrist. It is much more likely that she was ‘large’ with it in favour of her friend. ‘A little thing I picked up.’ Where does the Rees girl belong to?”

“I don’t know where she belongs to; somewhere the other side of the county, I think. But she has come to work for that isolated farm beyond Staples.”

“Long ago?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“So she could wear a new watch without question. Yes, I think it was Gladys who sent back your watch. If ever there was an unwilling witness it was Gladys on Monday. And if Gladys is shakeable to the point of sending back your property, a faint hope begins to dawn.”

“But she has committed perjury,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “Even a moron like Gladys Rees must have some glimmering of awareness that that is not well seen in a British court.”

“She could plead that she was blackmailed into it. If someone suggested that course to her.”

Mrs. Sharpe eyed him. “Isn’t there anything in English law about tampering with a witness?” she asked.

“Plenty. But I don’t propose to do any tampering.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“I must think it over. It is a delicate situation.”

“Mr. Blair, the intricacies of the Law have always been beyond me, and are always likely to be, but you won’t get yourself put away for contempt of court, or something like that, will you? I can’t imagine what the present situation would be like without your support.”

Robert said that he had no intention of............