But her
mind worked feverishly all the time, and gradually she fought herself
free of this weeping, which clutched her against her will.

Isaac was away for an hour. When he came back, he closed the door
carefully, and, walking to the table, threw down his hat upon it. His
face under its ruddy brown had suffered some radical, disintegrating
change.

"They've traced yer," he said hoarsely; "they've got it up to
twenty-six pound, an' more. Most on it 'ere in Clinton--some on it,
Muster Miles, o' Frampton, 'ull swear to. Watson 'ull go over to
Frampton, for the warrant--to-morrer."

The news shook her from head to foot. She stared at him
wildly--speechless.

"But that's not 'arf," he went on--"not near 'arf. Do yer 'ear? What
did yer do with the rest? I'll not answer for keepin' my 'ands off yer
if yer won't tell."

In his trance of rage and agony, he was incapable of pity. He had
small need to threaten her with blows--every word stabbed.

But her turn had come to strike back. She raised her head; she
measured her news against his; and she did it with a kind of exultation.

"Then I _will_ tell yer--an' I 'ope it 'ull do yer good. _I_ took
thirty-one pound o' Bolderfield's money then--but it warn't me took the
rest. Some one else tuk it, an' I stood by an' saw 'im. When I tried
to stop 'im--look 'ere."

She raised her hand, nodding, and pointing to the wound on her brow.

Isaac leant heavily on the table. A horrible suspicion swept through
him. Had she wronged him in a yet blacker way? He bent over her,
breathing fast--ready to strike.

"Who was it?"

She laughed. "Well, it wor _Timothy_, then--yur precious--beautiful
son--Timothy!"

He fell back.

"Yo're lyin'," he cried; "yer want to throw it off on some one. How
cud Timothy 'ave 'ad anythin' to do with John's money? Timothy's not
been near the place this three months."

"Not till lasst night," she said, mocking him. "I'll grant yer--not
till lasst night. But it _do_ 'appen, as lasst night Timothy took
forty-one pound o' John Borroful's money out o' that box, an got
off--clean. I'm sorry if yer don't like it--but I can't 'elp that; yo'
listen 'ere."

And, lifting a quivering finger, she told her tale at last, all the
beginning of it confused and almost unintelligible, but the scene with
Timothy vivid, swift, convincing--a direct impression from the ugly,
immediate fact.

He listened, his face lying on his arms. It was true,