Weyman Stanley John
Starvecrow Farm

At intervals she felt almost happy in this assurance; as she pressed the child to her, and watched by the dim, yellow light its slow recovery from the drug. Her present danger, her present straits, her position in this underground place, which would have sent some mad, were forgotten. And the past and the future filled her thoughts; and Anthony Clyne. Phrases of condemnation and contempt which he had used to her recurred, as she nursed his child; and she rejoiced to think that he must unsay them! The bruises which he had inflicted still discoloured her wrist, and moved strange feelings in her, when her eyes fell upon them. But he would repent of his violence soon! Very soon, very soon, and how completely! The thought was sweet to her!

She was in peril, and a week before she had been free as air. But then she had been without any prospect of reinstatement, any hope of regaining the world's respect, any chance of wiping out the consequences of her mad and foolish act. Now, if she lived, and escaped from this strait, he at least must thank her, he at least must respect her. And she was sure, yes, she dared to tell herself, blushing, that if he respected her, he would know how to make the world also respect her.

But then again she trembled. For there was a darker side. She was in the power of these wretches; and the worst-the thought paled her cheek-might happen! She held the child more closely to her, and rocked it to and fro in earnest prayer. The worst! Yes, the worst might happen. But then again she fell back on the reflection that he was searching for them, and if any could find them he would. He was searching for them, she was sure, as strenuously, and perhaps with more vengeful purpose than when he had sought the child alone! By this time, doubtless, she was missed, and he had raised the country, flung wide the alarm, set a score moving, fired the dalesmen from Bowness to Ambleside. Yes, for certain they were searching for her. And they must know, careful as she had been to hide her trail, that she could not have travelled far; and the scope of the search, therefore, would be narrow, and the scrutiny close. They could hardly fail, she thought, to visit the farm in the hollow; its sequestered and lonely position must invite inquiry. And if they entered, a single glance at the disordered kitchen would inform the searchers that something was amiss.

So far Henrietta's thoughts, as she clasped the boy to her and strove to warm him to life against her own body, ran in a current chequered but more or less hopeful. But again the supposition would force itself upon her-the men were desperate, and the woman was moved by a strange hatred of her. What if they fled, and left no sign? What if they escaped, and left no word of her? The thought was torture! She could not endure it. She put the child down, and rising to her knees, she covered her eyes with her hands. To be buried here underground! To die of hunger and thirst in this bricked vault, as far from hope and help, from the voices and eyes of men and the blessed light of the sun, as if they had laid her alive in her coffin!

Oh, it was horrible! She could not bear it; she could not bear to think of it. She sprang, forgetting herself, to her feet, and the blow which the roof dealt her, though her thick hair saved her from injury, intensified the feeling. She was buried! Yes, she was buried alive! The roof seemed to be sinking upon her. These brick walls so cunningly arched, and narrowing a t either end, as the ends of a coffin narrow, were the walls of her tomb! Those faint lines of mortar which seclusion from the elements had preserved in their freshness, presently she would attack them with her nails in the frenzy of her despair. She glared about her. The weight, the mass of the hill above, seemed to press upon her. The air seemed to fail her. Was there no way, no way of escape from this living tomb-this grave under the tons and tons and tons of rock and earth?

And then the child-perhaps she had put him from her roughly, and the movement had roused him-whimpered. And she shook herself free-thank God-free from the hideous dream that had obsessed her. She remembered that the men were not yet fled, nor was she abandoned. She was leaping, thank Heaven, far above the facts. In a passion of relief she knelt beside the child, and rained kisses on him, and swore to him, as he panted with terror in her arms, that he need not fear, that he was safe now, and she was beside him to take care of him! And that all would be well if he would not cry. All would be well. For she bethought herself that the child must not know how things stood. Fear and suffering he might know if the worst came; but not the fear, not the mental torture which she had known for a few moments, and which in so short a time had driven her almost beside herself.

The boy's faculties were still benumbed by the hardships which he had undergone; perhaps a little by the narcotic he had taken. And though he had seen Henrietta at least a dozen times in the old life, he could not remember her. Nevertheless she contrived to satisfy him that she was a friend, that she meant him well, that she would protect him. And little by little, in spite of the surroundings which drew the child's eyes again and again in terror to the dimly-lit vaulting, on which the shadow of the girl's figure bulked large, his alarm subsided. His heart beat less painfully, and his eyes lost in a degree the strained and pitiful look which had become habitual. But his little limbs still started if the light flickered, or the oil sputtered; and it was long before, partly by gentle suasion, partly by caresses, she succeeded in inducing the child-nauseated as he was by the drug-to take food. That done, though she still believed him to be in a critical state, and dreadfully weak, she was better satisfied. And soon, soothed by her firm embrace and confident words, her charge fell into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER XXXII
THE SEARCH

To return to Bishop. Thrown off the trail in the wood, he pushed along the road as far as Windermere village. There, however, he could hear nothing. No one of Henrietta's figure and appearance had been seen there. And in the worst of humours, with the world as well as with himself, he put about and returned to the inn. If the girl had come back during his absence, it was bad enough; he had had his trouble for nothing, and might have spared his shoe-leather. Hang such pretty frailties for him! But if, on the other hand, she had not come back, the case was worse. He had been left to watch her, and the blame would fall on him. Nadin would say more than he had said already about London officers and their uselessness. And if anything happened to her! Bishop wiped his brow as he thought of that, and of his next meeting with Captain Clyne. It was to be hoped, be devoutly hoped, that nothing had happened to the jade.

It wanted half an hour of sunset, when he arrived, fagged and fuming, at the inn; and if his worst fears were not realised, he soon had ground to dread that they might be. Miss Damer had not returned.

"I've no truck with them rubbishy radicals," Mrs. Gilson added impersonally, scratching her nose with the handle of a spoon-a sign that she was ill at ease. "But they're right enough in one thing, and that is, that there's a lot of useless folk paid by the country-that'd never get paid by any one else! And for brains, give me a calf's head!"

Bishop evaded the conflict with what dignity he might.

"The Captain's not come in?" he asked.

"Yes, he's come in," the landlady answered.

"Well," sullenly, "the sooner I see him the better, then!"

"You can't see him now," Mrs. Gilson replied, with a glance at the clock. "He's sleeping."

Bishop stared.

"Sleeping?" he cried. "And the young lady not come back?"

"He don't know that she has so much as gone out," Mrs. Gilson answered with the utmost coolness. "And what's more, I'm not going to tell him. He came in looking not fit to cross a room, my man, let alone cross a horse! And when I went to take him a dish of tea I found him asleep in his chair. And you may take it from me, if he's not left to have out his sleep, now it's come, he'll be no more use to you, six hours from this, than a corpse!"

"Still, ma'am," Bishop objected, "the Captain won't be best pleased-"

"Please a flatiron!" Mrs. Gilson retorted. "Best served's best pleased, my lad, and that you'll learn some day." And then suddenly taking the offensive, "For the matter of that, what do you want with him?" she continued. "Ain't you grown men? If Joe Nadin and you and half a dozen redbreasts can't find one silly girl in an open countryside, don't talk to me of your gangs! And your felonies! And the fine things you do in London!"

"But in London-"

"Ay, London Bridge was made for fools to go under!" Mrs. Gilson answered, with meaning. "It don't stand for nothing."

Bishop tapped his top-boot gloomily.

"She may come in any minute," he said. "There's that."

"She may, or she mayn't," Mrs. Gilson answered, with another look at the clock.

"She's not been gone more than an hour and a half."

"Nor the mouse my cat caught this afternoon," the landlady retorted. "But you'll not find it easily, my lad, nor know it when you find it."

He had no reply to make to that, but he carried his eye again to the clock. He was very uncomfortable-very uncomfortable. And yet he hardly knew what to do or where to look. In the meantime the girl's disappearance was becoming known, and caused, indoors and out, a thrill of excitement. Another abduction, another disappearance! And at their doors, on their thresholds, under their noses! Some heard the report with indignation, and two in the house heard it with remorse; many with pity. But in the breasts of most the feeling was not wholly painful. The new mystery revived and doubled the old; and blew to a white heat the embers of interest which were beginning to grow cold. In the teeth of the nipping air-and sunset is often the coldest hour of the twenty-four-groups gathered in the yard and before the house. And while a man here and there winked at his neighbour and hinted that the young madam had slunk back to the lover from whom she had been parted, the common view was that mischief was afoot and something strong should be done.

Meanwhile uncertainty-and in a small degree the absence of Captain Clyne and Nadin-paralysed action. At five, Bishop sent out three or four of his dependants; one to watch the boat-landing, one to keep an eye on the entrance to Troutbeck village, and others to bid the constables at Ambleside and Bowness be on the watch. But as long as the young lady's return seemed possible-and some still thought the whole a storm in a tea-cup-men not unnaturally shrank from taking the lead. Nor until the man who took all the blame to himself interposed, was any real step taken.

It was nearly six when Bishop, talking with his friends in the passage, found himself confronted by the chaplain. Mr. Sutton was in a state of great and evident agitation. There were red spots on his cheek-bones, his pinched features were bedewed with perspiration, his eyes were bright. And he who usually shunned encounter with coarser wits, now singled out the officer in the midst of his fellows.

"Are you going to do nothing," he cried, "except drink?"

Bishop stared.

"See here, Mr. Sutton," he said, slowly and with dignity, "you must not forget-"

"Except drink?" the chaplain repeated, without compromise. And taking Bishop's glass, which stood half-filled on the window-seat beside him, he flung its contents through the doorway. "Do your duty, sir!" he continued firmly. "Do your duty! You were here to see that the lady did not leave the house alone. And you permitted her to go."

"And what part," Bishop answered, with a sneer, "did your reverence play, if you please?" He was a sober man for those times, and the taunt was not a fair one.

"A poor part," the chaplain answered. "A mean one! But now-I ask only to act. Say what I shall do, and if it be only by my example I may effect something."

"Ay, you may!" Bishop returned. "And I'll find your reverence work fast enough. Do you go and tell Captain Clyne the lady's gone. It's a task I've no stomach for myself," with a grin; "and your reverence is the very man for it."

Mr. Sutton winced.

"I will do even that," he said, "if you will no longer lose time."

"But she may return any minute."

"She will not!" Mr. Sutton retorted, with anger. "She will not! God forgive us for letting her go! If I failed in my duty, sir, do you do yours! Do you do yours!"

And such power does enthusiasm give a man, that he who these many days had seemed to the inn a poor, timid creature, slinking in and out as privately as possible, now shamed all and kindled all.

"By jingo, I will, your reverence!" Bishop cried, catching the flame. "I will!" he repeated heartily. And he turned about and began to give orders with energy.

Fortunately Nadin arrived at that moment; and with his burly form and broad Lancashire accent, he seemed to bring with him the vigour of ten. In three minutes he apprehended the facts, pooh-poohed the notion that the girl would return, and with a good round oath "dommed them Jacobins," to give his accent for once, "for the graidliest roogs and the roofest devils i' all Lancashire-and that's saying mooch! But we mun ha' them hanged now," he continued, striding to and fro in his long, rough horseman's coat. "We mun ha' them hanged! We'll larn them!"

He formed parties and assigned roads and brought all into order. The first necessity was to visit every house within a mile of the inn on the Windermere side; and this was taken in hand at once. In ten minutes the road twinkled with lights, and the frosty ground rang under the tread of ironshod boots. It was ascertained that no boat had crossed the lake that afternoon; and this so far narrowed the area to be searched, that the men were in a high state of excitement, and those who carried firearms looked closely to their priming.

"'Tis a pity it's neet!" said Nadin. "But we mun ha' them, we mun ha' them, afoor long!"

Meanwhile, Mr. Sutton had braced himself to the task which he had undertaken. Challenged by Bishop, he had been anxious to go at once to Clyne's room and tell him; that the Captain might go with the searchers if he pleased. But he had not mounted three steps before Mrs. Gilson was at his heels, bidding him, in her most peremptory manner, to "let his honour be for another hour. What can he do?" she urged. "He's but one more, and now the lads are roused, they'll do all he can do! Let him be, let him be, man," she continued. "Or if you must, watch him till he wakes, and then tell him."

"It will be worse then," the chaplain said.

"But he'll be better!" she retorted. "Do you be bidden by me. The man wasn't fit to carry his meat to his mouth when he went upstairs. But let him be until he has had his sleep out and he'll be another man."

And Mr. Sutton let himself be bidden. But he was right. Every minute which passed made the task before him more difficult. When at last Captain Clyne awoke, a few minutes after eight o'clock, and startled, brought his scattered senses to a focus, he saw sitting opposite him a man who hid his face in his hands, and shivered.

Clyne rose.

"Man, man!" he said. "What is it? Have you bad news?"

But the chaplain could not speak. He could only shake his head.

"They have not-not found-"

Clyne could not finish the sentence. He turned away, and with a trembling hand snuffed a candle-that his face might be hidden.

The chaplain shook his head.

"No, no!" he said. "No!"

"But it is-it's bad news?"

"Yes. She's-she's gone! She's disappeared!"

Clyne dropped the snuffers on the table.

"Gone?" he muttered. "Who? Miss Damer?"

"Yes. She left the house this afternoon, and has not returned. It was my fault! My fault!" poor Mr. Sutton continued, in a tone of the deepest abasement. And with his face hidden he bowed himself to and fro like a man in pain. "They asked me to follow her, and I would not! I would not-out of pride!"

"And she has not returned?" Clyne asked, in an odd tone.

"She has not returned-God forgive me!"

Clyne stared at the flame of the nearest candle. But he saw, not the flame, but Henrietta; as he had seen her the morning he turned his back on her, and left her standing alone on the road above the lake. Her slender figure under the falling autumn leaves rose before him; and he knew that he would never forgive himself. By some twist of the mind her fate seemed the direct outcome of that moment, of that desertion, of that cruel, that heartless abandonment. The after-events, save so far as they proved her more sinned against than sinning, vanished. He had been her sole dependence, her one protector, the only being to whom she could turn. And he had abandoned her heartlessly; and this-this unknown and dreadful fate-was the result. Her face rose before him, now smiling and defiant, now pale and drawn; and the piled-up glory of her hair. And he remembered-too late, alas, too late-that she had been of his blood and his kin; and that he had first neglected her, and later when his mistake bred its natural result in her act of folly, he had deserted and punished her.

Remorse is the very shirt of Nessus. It is of all mental pains the worst. It seizes upon the whole mind; it shuts out every prospect. It cries into the ear with every slow tick of the clock, the truth that that which had once been so easy can never be done now! That reparation, that kind word, that act of care, of thoughtfulness, of pardon-never, never now! And once so easy! So easy!

For he knew now that he had loved the girl; and that he had thrown away that which might have been the happiness of his life. He knew now that only pride had blinded him, giving the name of pity to that which was love-or so near to love that it was impossible to say where one ended and the other began. He thought of her courage and her pride; and then of the womanliness that, responding to the first touch of gentleness on his side, had wept for his child. And how he had wronged her from the first days of slighting courtship! how he had misunderstood her, and then mistrusted and maligned her-he, the only one to whom she could turn for help, or whom she could trust in a land of strangers-until it had come to this! It had come to this.

Oh, his poor girl! His poor girl!

A groan, bitter and irrepressible, broke from him. The man stood stripped of the trappings of prejudice; he saw himself as he was, and the girl as she was, a creature of youth and spirit and impulse. And he was ashamed to the depths of his soul.

At last, "What time did she go out?" he muttered.

The chaplain roused himself with a shiver and told him.

"Then she has been missing five hours?" There was a sudden hardening in his tone. "You have done something, I suppose? Tell me, man, that you have done something!"

The chaplain told him what was being done. And the mere statement gave comfort. Hearing that Mrs. Gilson had been the last to speak to her, Clyne said he would see the landlady. And the two went out of the room.

In the passage a figure rose before them and fled with a kind of bleating cry. It was Modest Ann, who had been sitting in the dark with her apron over her head. She was gone before they were sure who it was. And they thought nothing of the incident, if they noticed it.

Downstairs they found no news and no comfort; but much coming and going. For presently the first party returned from its quest, and finding that nothing had been discovered, set forth again in a new direction. And by-and-by another returned, and standing ate something, and went out again, reinforced by Clyne himself. And so began a night of which the memory endured in the inn for a generation. Few slept, and those in chairs, ready to start up at the first alarm. The tap ran free for all; and in the coffee-room the table was set and set again. The Sunday's joints-for the next day was Sunday-were cooked and cold, and half-eaten before the morning broke; and before breakfast the larder of the Salutation at Ambleside was laid under contribution. At intervals, those who dozed were aware of Nadin's tall, bulky presence as he entered shaking the rime from his long horseman's coat and calling for brandy; or of Bishop, who went and came all night, but in a frame of mind so humble and downcast that men scarcely knew him. And now and again a fresh band of searchers tramped in one behind the other, passed the news by a single shake of the head, and crowding to the table ate and drank before they turned to again-to visit a more distant, and yet a more distant part.

Even from the mind of the father, the boy's loss seemed partly effaced by this later calamity. The mystery was so much the deeper: the riddle the more perplexing. The girl had gone out on foot in the full light of a clear afternoon; and within a few hundred yards of the place to which they had traced the boy, she had vanished as if she had never been. Clyne knew from her own lips that Walterson was somewhere within reach. But this did not help much, since no one could hit on the place. And various were the suggestions, and many and strange the solutions proposed. Every poacher and every ne'er-do-well was visited and examined, every house was canvassed, every man who had ever said aught that could be held to savour of radical doctrine, was considered. As the search spread to a wider and yet wider area, the alarm went with it, and new helpers arrived, men on horseback and men on foot. And all through the long winter's night the house hummed; and the lights of the inn shone on the water as brightly and persistently as the stars that in the solemn firmament wheeled and marched.

But lamps and stars were alike extinguished, and the late dawn was filtering through the casements on jaded faces and pale looks, when the first gleam of encouragement showed itself. Clyne had been out for some hours, and on his return had paused at the door of the snuggery to swallow the cup of hot coffee, which the landlady pressed upon him. Nadin was still out, but Bishop was there and the chaplain, and two or three yeomen and peasants. In all hearts hope had by this time given way to dejection; and dejection was fast yielding to despair. The party stood, here and there, for the most part silent, or dropped now and again a despondent word.

Suddenly Modest Ann appeared among them, with her head shrouded in her apron. And, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" the woman cried hysterically. "I must speak!"

A thrill of amazement ran through the group. They straightened themselves.

"If you know anything, speak by all means!" Clyne said, for surprise tied Mrs. Gilson's tongue. "Do you know where the lady is?"

"No! no!"

"Did she tell you anything?"

"Nothing! nothing!" the woman answered, sobbing wildly, and still holding the apron drawn tightly over her face. "Missus, don't kill me! She told me naught! Naught! But-"

"Well-what? What?"

"There was a letter I gave her some time ago-before-oh, dear! – before the rumpus was, and she was sent to Kendall! And I'm thinking," sob, sob, "you'd maybe know something from the person who gave it me."

"That's it," said Bishop coolly. "You're a sensible woman. Who was it?"

"That girl-of Hinkson's," she sobbed.

"Bess Hinkson!" Mrs. Gilson ejaculated.

"Ay, sure! Oh, dear! oh, dear! Bess said that she had it from a man on the road."

"And that may be so, or it may not," Bishop answered, with quiet dryness. He was in his element again. And then in a lower tone, "We're on it now," he muttered, "or I am mistaken. I've seen the young lady near Hinkson's once or twice. And it was near there I lost her. The house has been visited, of course; it was one of the first visited. But we'd no suspicion then, and now we have. Which makes a difference."

"You're going there?"

"Straight, sir, without the loss of a minute!"

Clyne's eyes sparkled. And tired as they were, the men answered to the call. Ten minutes before, they had crawled in, the picture of fatigue. Now, as they crossed the pastures above the inn, and plunged into the little wood in which Henrietta had baffled Bishop, they clutched their cudgels with as much energy as if the chase were but opening. It mattered not that some wore the high-collared coats of the day, and two waistcoats under them, and had watches in their fobs; and that others tramped in smock frocks drawn over their fustian shorts. The same indignation armed all, great and small, rich and poor; and in a wonderfully short space of time they were at the gate of Starvecrow Farm.

The house that, viewed at its best, had a bald and melancholy aspect, wore a villainous look now-perched up there in bare, lowering ugliness, with its blind gable squinting through the ragged fir-trees.

Bishop left a man in the road, and sent two to the rear of the crazy, ruinous outbuildings which clung to the slope. With Clyne and the other three he passed round the corner of the house, stepped to the door and knocked. The sun's first rays were striking the higher hills, westward of the lake, as the party, with stern faces, awaited the answer. But the lake, with its holms, and the valley and all the lower spurs, lay grey and still and dreary in the grip of cold. The note of melancholy went to the heart of one as he looked, and filled it with remorse.

"Too late," it seemed to say, "too late!"

For a time no one came. And Bishop knocked again, and more imperiously; first sending a man to the lower end of the ragged garden to be on the look-out. He knocked a third time. At last a shuffling of feet was heard approaching the door, and a moment later old Hinkson opened it. He looked, as he stood blinking in the daylight, more frowsy and unkempt and to be avoided than usual. But-they noted with disappointment that the door was neither locked nor bolted; so that had they thought of it they might have entered at will!

"What is't?" he drawled, peering at them. "Why did you na' come in?"

Bishop pushed in without a word. The others followed. A glance sufficed to discover all that the kitchen contained; and Bishop, deaf to the old man's remonstrances, led the way straight up the dark, close staircase. But though they explored without ceremony all the rooms above, and knocked, and called, and sounded, and listened, they stumbled down again, baffled.

"Where's your daughter?" Bishop asked sternly.

"She was here ten minutes agone," the old man answered. Perhaps because the day was young he showed rather more sense than usual. But his eyes were full of spite.

"Here, was she?"

"Ay."

"And where's she now?"

"She's gone to t' doctor's. She be nursing there. They've no lass."

"Nursing! Who's she nursing?" incredulously.

The old man grinned at the ignorance of the question.

"The wumman and the babby," he said.

"At Tyson's?"

"Ay, ay."

"The house in the hollow?"

"That be it."

While they were talking thus, others had searched the crazy outhouses, but to no better purpose. And presently they all assembled in the road outside the gate.

"Where's your dog, old lad?" asked one of the dalesmen.

The miser had shuffled after them, holding out his hand and begging of them.

"At the doctor's," he answered. "Her be fearsome and begged it. Ye'll give an old man something?" he added, whining. "Ye'll give something?"

"Off! Off you go, my lad!" Bishop cried. "We've done with you. If you're not a rascal 'tis hard on you, for you look one!" And when the old skinflint had crawled back under the fir-trees, "Worst is, sir," he continued, with a grave face, "it's all true. Tyson's away in the north-with a brother or something of that kind-so I hear. And his missus had a baby this ten days gone or more. He's a rough tyke, but he's above this sort of thing, I take it. Still, we'll go and question the girl. We may get something from her."

And they trooped off along the road in twos and threes, and turning the corner saw Tyson's house, below them-so far below them that it had, as always, the look of a toy house on a toy meadow at the bottom of a green bowl. Below the house the little rivulet that rose beside it bisected the meadow, until at the end of the open it lost itself in the narrow wooded gorge, through which it sprang in unseen waterfalls to join the lake below.

They descended the slope to the house; sharp-eyed but saying little. A trifle to one side of the door, under a window, a dog was kenneled. It leapt out barking; but seeing so many persons it slunk in again and lay growling.. A moment and the door was opened and Bess showed herself. She looked astonished, but not in any way frightened.

"Eh, masters!" she said. "What is it? Are you come after the young lady again?"

"Ay," Bishop answered. "We are. We want to know where you got the letter you gave Ann at the inn-to give to her?"

Perhaps Bess looked for the question and was prepared. At any rate, she betrayed no sign of confusion.

"Well," she said, "I can tell you what he was like that gave it me."

"A man gave it you?"

"Ay, and a shilling. And," smiling broadly, "he'd have given me something else if I'd let him."

"A kiss, I bet!" said Bishop.

"Ay, it was. But I said that'd be another shilling."

Clyne groaned.

"For God's sake," he said, "come to the point. Time's everything."

Bishop shrugged his shoulders.

"Where did you see him, my girl?" he asked.

"By the gate of the coppice as I was bringing the milk," she answered frankly. "'I'm her Joe,' he said. 'And if you'll hand her this and keep mum, here's a shilling for you.' And-"

"Very good," said Bishop. "And what was he like?"

With much cunning she described Walterson, and Bishop acknowledged the likeness. "It's our man!" he said, slapping his boot with his loaded whip. "And now, my dear, which way did he go?"

But she explained that she had met him by the gate-he was a stranger-and she had left him in the same place.

"And you can't say which way he went?"

"No," she answered. "Nor yet which way he came. I looked back to see, to tell the truth," frankly. "But he had not moved, and he did not move until I was out of sight. And I never saw him again. The boy had not been stolen then," she continued, "and I thought little of it."