"What's all this about yer money?" she said, staring John in the face.
"What do I know about yer money? 'Ow dare yer say such things? I
'aven't anythin' to do with it, an' never 'ad."

He raved at her, in reply, about the position in which he had found the
box--on the top of its fellow instead of underneath, where he had
placed it--about the broken lock, the sovereigns she had been changing,
and the things Watson had said of her--winding 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? 'Ee 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 an' 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