t
retribution for his crimes was the chief cause of her silence.

A dread that she might be compelled to do so was lessened by his next
speech. "You've no call to look so scared, Polly Daverill. You do what
I tell you, and be sharp about it. What are you good for?--that's the
question! Got any money in the house?"

She felt relieved. Now he would take his arm away. That arm was all the
worse from the fact that her shrinking from it was one-sided. "A
little," she answered. "It's upstairs. Let me get it."

He relaxed the arm. "Go ahead!" he said. "I'll follow up."

She cried out with sudden emphasis:--"No--I will not. I will not." And
then with subdued earnestness:--"Indeed I will bring it down. Indeed I
will."

"You won't stick up there, by any chance, till your man that's not your
husband happens round?"

She addressed him by name for the first time. "Thornton, did I ever tell
you a lie?"

"I never caught you in one, that I know of. Cut along!"

She went like a bird released. Once in her room, and clear of him, she
could lock her door and cry for help. She turned the key, and had
actually thrown up the window-sash, when her own words crossed her
mind--her claim to veracity. No--she would keep a clear conscience, come
what might. She glanced up the Court, and saw Micky coming through the
arch; then closed the window, and took an old leather purse from the
drawer of the looking-glass Mr. Bartlett's men had not broken. It
contained the whole of her small savings.

After she left the room, Daverill had glanced round for valuables. An
old silver watch of Uncle Mo's, that always stopped unless allowed to
lie on its back, was ticking on the dresser. The convict slipped it into
his pocket, and looked round for more, opening drawers, looking under
dish-covers. Finding nothing, he sat again on the table, with his hands
in the pockets of his velveteen corduroy coat. His face-twist grew more
marked as he wrinkled the setting of a calculating eye. "I should have
to square it with Miss Juliar," said he, in soliloquy. He was evidently
clear about his meaning, whatever it was.

The boy came running down the Court, and entering the front-yard, whose
claim to be a garden was now _nil_, tapped at the window excitedly.
Daverill went to the door and opened it.

"Mister Moses coming along. Stopping to speak to Tappingses. You'd best
step it sharp, Mister Wix!"

"Polly Daverill, look alive!" The convict shouted at the foot of t