John heard no more, for, seeing that the good woman was working herself up into a most unchristian fury, and being, moreover, in no mood to meet the astonished queries of Margery Formby, he went quickly out of the room and out of the house, resolved to extract an explanation from Sally without delay.

Very bitter and angry was his mood, far more bitter and angry than on the evening when he had first beheld her.  That which he had originally dismissed as an unjust suspicion had now grown to be almost certainty; and he waited doggedly the word which must confirm it.  His blood boiled within him as he thought of Sally’s effrontery.  It was an insult, an unpardonable impertinence; one which he was, indeed, resolved never to pardon.  He would make her confess, and then he would have done with her for ever.

Had his temper been less wrathful he might have been touched at the joyful alacrity with which she sprang to meet him.  It had needed no call to bring her to his side; some instinct seemed to have warned her of his coming, and she had caught sight of him while still a long way off and hastened towards him as he approached.  She uttered a little cry of joy as her eyes fell upon her gift.

“Eh! ye’ve got it on!  It looks gradely.”

“It looks gradely, does it?” returned John grimly.  “I’ve a word or two to say to you about this, Sally?  Where did you get this?  Is this the handkerchief that was stolen from Mr. Lambert of Saltfield?”

Sally looked back at him quite unabashed, and began to laugh.

“Think o’ your guessin’!” she cried.  “Well, doesn’t it suit ye a dale better nor yon ugly owd chap?”

John turned quite pale; then, with an oath and a sudden fierce gesture, tore the handkerchief from his neck and threw it on the ground.

“How dare you?” he cried, turning on Sally with flashing eyes.  “How dare you look me in the face after treating me like this?  Insultin’ me—­makin’ a laughin’ stock of me—­”

He stopped, stammering with rage.  The angry colour had now returned to his face; it was Sally who was pale.  She stared at him aghast, and presently began to sob like a frightened child.

“I’m sure I dunno whatever I’ve done to mak’ ye so mad,” she cried brokenly.  “I did but look to please ye.”

“Please me!” cried John, stamping his foot.  “How could it please me for you to give me a thing that no respectable man ought to touch—­a thing as was stolen?  I was a fool to think it could have been honestly come by; but when you gave it me, looking so innocent, I never guessed you’d gone and picked it off a hedge.”

“I didna,” sobbed Sally.  “I took it out of Aunt Nancy’s bundle.  Hoo’ll be soom mad when hoo finds out, and hoo’ll thrash me for ’t.  Hoo reckoned to pop it as soon as we’d getten a bit further away fro’ Saltfield.”

John turned quite sick.  This gift of Sally’s had, then, been doubly stolen.  He had been wearing an adornment which had been stolen from a thief!  Words failed him, but he looked at Sally as though he could slay her.