Watson followed him, afraid lest he should drop in the road.  Instead, John seemed to gather strength.  He made straight for the hill, taking no heed whatever of two or three startled acquaintances who stopped and shouted to him.  When the ground began to rise, he stumbled again and again, but by a marvel did not fall, and his pace hardly slackened.  Watson had difficulty in keeping up with him.

But when the policeman reached his own cottage on the side of the road, he stopped, panting, and contented himself with looking after the mounting figure.  As soon as it turned the corner of the Costrells’ lane, he went into his own house, said a word to his wife, and sat himself down at his own back door to await events—­to ponder, also, a few conversations he had held that morning, with Mrs. Moulsey at ‘the shop,’ with Dawson, with Hall the butcher.  Poor old John—­poor old fellow!

When Bolderfield reached the paling in front of the Costrells’ cottage, he paused a moment, holding for support to the half-open gate and struggling for breath.  ’I must keep my ‘edd, I must,’ he was saying to himself piteously;’ don yer be a fool, John Borroful, don yer be a fool!’

As he stood there, a child’s face pushed the window-blind of the cottage aside, and the lame boy’s large eyes looked Bolderfield up and down.  Immediately after, the door opened, and all four children stood huddling behind each other on the threshold.  They all looked shyly at the newcomer.  They knew him, but in six months they had grown strange to him.

‘Arthur, where’s your mother?’ said John, at last able to walk firmly up to the door.

‘Don know.’

‘When did yer see her lasst?’

’She wor ‘ere gettin us our tea,’ said another child; ’but she didn’t eat nothin.’

John impatiently pushed the children before him back into the kitchen.

’You ‘old your tongues,’ he said, ’an stay ‘ere.’

And he made for the door in the kitchen wall.  But Arthur caught hold of his coat-tails and clung to them.

‘Yer oughtn’t to go up there—­mother don’t let any one go there.’

John wrenched himself violently away.

’Oh, don’t she! yo take your ’ands away, yer little varmint, or I’ll brain yer.’

He raised his stick, threatening.  The child, terrified, fell back, and
John, opening the door, rushed up the stairs.

He was so terribly excited that his fumbling fingers could hardly find the ribbon round his neck.  At last he drew it over his head, and made stupendous efforts to steady his hand sufficiently to put the key in the lock.

The children below heard a sharp cry directly the cupboard door was opened; then the frantic dragging of a box on to the stairs, the creak of hinges—­a groan long and lingering—­and then silence.

They clung together in terror, and the little girls began to cry.  At last Arthur took courage and opened the door.