_Was_ it a thief who had taken the bags?
or was it a cruel power that no hands could reach, which had delighted in making him a second time desolate?
He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who could be reached by hands.

His thoughts glanced at all the neighbours who had made any remarks, or asked any questions which he might now regard as a ground of suspicion.

There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, and otherwise disreputable: he had often met Marner in his journeys across the fields, and had said something jestingly about the weaver's money; nay, he had once irritated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called to light his pipe, instead of going about his business.

Jem Rodney was the man--there was ease in the thought.

Jem could be found and made to restore the money: Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get back his gold which had gone from him, and left his soul like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert.