he passage, being now accustomed to
start at sounds which suggested pursuit; he started and he felt the wet
smock-frock, which was his disguise, clinging to him as he moved, and the
reality of the present returned to him with awful force. His wife again
entered the room.

"There are over nine pounds," she said. "It is all I have." She laid the
money upon the table before him and remained standing. "You shall have
the rest to-morrow," she added.

"Can't I see Nellie?" he asked suddenly. It was the first time he had
spoken of his child. Mrs. Goddard hesitated.

"No," she said at last. "You cannot see her now. She must not be told;
she thinks you are dead. You may catch a glimpse of her to-morrow--"

"Well--it is better she should not know, I suppose. You could not
explain."

"No, Walter, I could not--explain. Come later to-morrow night--to the
same window. I will undo the shutters and give you the money." Mary
Goddard was almost overcome with exhaustion. It was a terrible struggle
to maintain her composure under such circumstances; but necessity does
wonders. "Where will you sleep to-night?" she asked presently. She pitied
the wretch from her heart, though she longed to see him leave her house.

"I will get into the stables of some public-house. I pass for a tramp."
There was a terrible earnestness in the simple statement, which did more
to make Mary Goddard realise her husband's position than anything else
could have done. To people who live in the country the word "tramp" means
so much.

"Poor Walter!" said Mrs. Goddard softly, and for the first time since she
had seen him the tears stood in her eyes.

"Don't waste your pity on me," he answered. "Let me be off."

There was half a loaf and some cheese left upon the table. Mrs. Goddard
put them together and offered them to him.

"You had better take it," she said. He took the food readily enough and
hid it under his frock. He knew the value of it. Then he got upon his
feet. He moved painfully, for the cold and the wet had stiffened his
limbs already weakened with hunger and exhaustion.

"Let me be off," he said again, and moved towards the door. His wife
followed him in silence. In the passage he paused again.

"Well, Mary," he said, "I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for not
giving me up to the police."

"You know very well," answered Mrs. Goddard, "that what I can do to save
you, I will do. You know that."

"Then do it, and don't forget the money.