It is conjectured that Mrs.Tripp, whose cow supplied "The Bower" with milk, learnt the facts from the buttoned youth when she paid her professional call at 7.30 a.m.; but none knew for certain.

I might here paint Mrs.Tripp full of tongues, and dress her up as "Rumour," after the best epic models; but in saying that she had the usual number of lips and hands, that her parents were respectable, and that she never shrieked from a lofty tower in her life, I only do her the barest justice.
This much is sure--that among the knot of loungers at the church-gate such sentences as the following passed from mouth to mouth-- "Es et true, do'ee think ?" "Certain--carr'ge an' pair from Five Lanes las' night--not a word said." "My!" "Ef so, this town's been purtily robbed." "That's a true word." Then this happened-- The Trojan in broadcloth heard, as he passed, the words of the Trojan in corduroy; inquired, shook his head, and walked on; doubted; turned back to hear more; consulted his wife; and decided to go and see.
The consequence was that at ten minutes to eleven the stream of church-goers descending along the Parade was met by another stream rolling towards "The Bower" and every moment gathering volume.
As there was no place of worship in this direction, a conference followed the confluence.

The churchgoers turned, joined the larger stream, and the whole flood poured uphill.
Outside "The Bower" they halted for a moment.

One tradesman, a furniture dealer, bolder than the rest, advanced to the front-door and knocked.
The boy in buttons answered with a white face.

In a moment the truth was out.
This whisper among the crowd grew to a murmur, the murmur to a roar.
In vain the church-bell tolled out the single note that summons the parson.