"My dear aunt," said he, "what can it all mean?"
"Heaven only knows! I cannot even conjecture. But just come with me, dear, and look at the things. There," she added, on opening the parlour-door, "did you ever see a room in such a state of confusion?"
Sylvester looked, and really felt, quite astonished.
"You see," she continued; "there's not a single thing in its place."
"But what could have been their object?" said Sylvester. "The things are disarranged, it is true; but they appear to have disturbed them with great consideration. I cannot conceive what their motive could have been.
"Nor can I! unless, indeed, it were merely to annoy me."
"I should say that had that been their object, they would never have removed them with so much care. The things have not been thrown together, you perceive: it has been a work of time. Look at this china and glass; there is some little taste, you perceive, displayed in the arrangement."
"I do not admire the taste displayed, but they certainly have been most carefully handled. But that, my dear, which annoys me more than all, is the fact of my being unable to imagine, not only who did it, but how it was done. I should say myself, that thieves have not been in the house. I miss nothing here. The only things which have disappeared, with the exception of the bread, butter, eggs, and ham, are the clothes of poor Judkins."
"Are they gone? Well—that is strange."
"And, especially as there are many things much more portable and infinitely more valuable here: that timepiece, for instance, is worth thirty pounds. However, not a thing shall be touched until Mr. Rouse comes. I'll have the whole matter investigated fully."
She then returned to the breakfast-room, and Sylvester went up to Judkins, whom he found still in bed, for he hadn't a thing to put on.
"Why, how is this, Judkins?" said Sylvester, as he entered; "I hear that you have lost all your clothes."
"Every rag: every individual rag," replied Judkins; "I haven't a mite of anything to put on. I shouldn't have cared if they'd only just left me a pair of breeches; but blarm 'em, to take away the lot was ondecent."
"Didn't you hear them at all?"
"I only wish for their sakes I had; Id ha' cooked the goose of one or two of 'em, I'll warrant. It's worse than highway robbery, ten times over. I'd ha' forgiven 'em if they'd stopped me on the road, but to crawl in and steal a man's clothes clandestinely when he's asleep, is the warmintest proceeding I ever heered tell on."
"Well, how do you mean to manage? Shall I run to the tailor for you?"
"No, I thank you, sir; Mary's just gone to the Parson's gardener, to ask him to lend me a pair of breeches and a waistcoat: but I don't know whether he will or not, I'm sure."
"My trousers, I suppose, will not fit you?"
