inding up with a peremptory demand for
his money.

'Yo gi me my money back,' he said, holding out a shaking hand. 'Yer
can't 'ave spent it all--tain't possible--an yer ain't chucked it out o'
winder. Yer've got it somewhere 'idden, an I'll get it out o' you if I
die for 't!'

Bessie surveyed him steadily. She had not even flinched at the mention
of the sovereigns.

'What yer 'aven't got, yer can't give,' she said. 'I don know nothin
about it, an I've tole yer. There's plenty o' bad people in the world--
beside me. Somebody came in o' nights, I suppose, an picked the lock--
there's many as 'ud think nothin of it. And it 'ud be easy done--we all
sleeps 'ard.'

'Bessie!' cried Mary Anne, outraged by something in her tone, 'aren't
yer sorry for 'im?'

She pointed to the haggard and trembling man.

Bessie turned to her reluctantly.

'Aye, I'm sorry,' she said, sullenly. 'But he shouldn't fly out at yer
without 'earin a word. 'Ow should I know anythin about his money? 'Be
locked it up hisself, an tuk the keys.'

'An them suverins,' roared John, rattling his stick on the floor; 'where
did yer get them suverins?'

'I got 'em from old Sophy Clarke--leastways, from Sophy Clarke's lawyer.
And it ain't no business o' yourn.'

At this John fell into a frenzy, shouting at her in inarticulate
passion, calling her liar and thief.

She fronted it with perfect composure. Her fine eyes blazed, but
otherwise her face might have been a waxen mask. With her, in this
scene, was all the tragic dignity; with him, the weakness and vulgarity.

At last the little widow caught her by the arm, and drew her from the
door.

'Let me take 'im to my place,' she pleaded: 'it's no good talkin while
'ee's like 'ee is--not a bit o' good. John--John dear! you come along wi
me. Shall I get Saunders to come and speak to yer?'

A gleam of sudden hope shot into the old man's face. He had not thought
of Saunders; but Saunders had a head; he might unravel this accursed
thing.

'Aye!' he said, lurching forward, 'let's find Saunders--coom along--
let's find Saunders.'

Mary Anne guided him through the door, Bessie standing aside. As the
widow passed, she touched Bessie piteously.

'O Bessie, yer _didn't_ do it--say yer didn't!'

Bessie looked at her, dry-eyed and contemptuous. Something in the
speaker's emotion seemed to madden her.

'Don't yer be a fool, Mary Anne--that's all!' she said scornfully, and
Mary Anne fled from her.

When the