The door opened, and Bessie appeared on the threshold.

At sight of her John seemed to lose his senses.  He rushed at her, threatening, imploring, reviling—­while Mary Anne could only cling to his arms and coat, lest he should attempt some bodily mischief.

Bessie closed the door, leant against it, and folded her arms.  She was white and haggard, but perfectly cool.  In this moment of excitement it struck neither John nor Mary Anne—­nor, indeed, herself—­that her manner, with its brutality, and its poorly feigned surprise, was the most revealing element in the situation.

‘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?  ’Be 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 and speak to yer?’