We find this story elaborated upon in Legends of the Jews by Ginzberg.

The brothers hadn't even cleared the city gates when Joseph, eager to spring his trap but also wary of letting them get too far, sent his steward, Manasseh, after them. His mission? To accuse them of theft and bring them back. Joseph, ever the strategist, hoped the proximity to the city would make them more compliant.

Manasseh, following orders, caught up with them. "The silver cup is missing!" he declared, accusing them of theft. The brothers, indignant and sure of their innocence, responded with bravado: "With whomsoever of thy servants the cup be found, let him die, and we also will be my lord's bondmen." A harsh sentence, but they were confident.

Manasseh, playing his part perfectly, softened the blow, or so it seemed. "He with whom the cup is found shall be the bondman, and the rest shall be blameless." He then proceeded to search their sacks, starting with Reuben, the eldest, to avoid suspicion, and ending with Benjamin, the youngest. And, of course, the cup was found in Benjamin's sack.

Imagine the scene. The shock, the outrage. "O thou thief and son of a thief!" the brothers shouted at Benjamin, according to Ginzberg's retelling. "Thy mother brought shame upon our father by her thievery, and now thou bringest shame upon us." Benjamin, bewildered, could only retort, "Is this matter as evil as the matter of the kid of the goats—as the deed of the brethren that sold their own brother into slavery?" Ouch.

In their fury and vexation, the brothers rent their clothes – a powerful symbol of grief and despair. Midrash Rabbah connects this act to their past sin, noting that just as they caused Jacob to tear his clothes in mourning for Joseph, they now tear their own. And, in a fascinating twist, it also foreshadows Mordecai, a descendant of Benjamin, tearing his clothes on account of his brethren, the people of Israel, in the story of Purim.

But the consequences didn’t end there. Because Manasseh, Joseph's steward, caused them such grief, the tribe of Manasseh's territory was "torn" in two, with half on one side of the Jordan and half on the other. And Joseph himself, for his harsh treatment of his brothers, was punished through his descendant Joshua, who tore his clothes in despair after the defeat at Ai.

Convicted, the brothers had no choice but to return to the city. As they walked, they continued to berate Benjamin, "O thou thief and son of a thief, thou hast brought the same shame upon us that thy mother brought upon our father." Yet, Benjamin bore their abuse in silence, and for his humility, God promised that His Shekinah (Divine Presence) would "dwell between his shoulders," and called him "the beloved of the Lord."

Back in the city, they were brought before Joseph. They fell to the earth before him, fulfilling his childhood dream of dominance. But Judah, simmering with rage, warned his brothers, "Verily, this man hath forced me to come back hither only that I should destroy the city on this day."

Joseph, through an interpreter, accused them of stealing the cup to divine the whereabouts of their lost brother. Judah, ever the eloquent spokesman, protested their innocence, but acknowledged that "God hath found out the iniquity of thy servants." He even suggests that their collective sin, the selling of Joseph, was the reason they were all caught together.

Joseph then delivered what seemed like a final blow: only Benjamin would remain as his slave. "Go hence, and tell your father, 'The rope follows after the water bucket.'" In other words, bad luck comes in threes.

But the story isn't over. Judah, unable to bear the thought of his father's grief and Benjamin's enslavement, steps forward, ready to fight. As we read in Legends of the Jews, "Now it is all over with peace!" he cried, preparing to use force to rescue Benjamin.

What happens next? Well, that's a story for another time. But the stage is set for a powerful confrontation, a moment of truth that will reveal the true nature of these brothers and the depths of Joseph's plan. It makes you wonder: how far is too far when seeking justice or reconciliation? And what price are we willing to pay for the mistakes of our past?