‘When was it as yer opened that box fust?’ he asked her again, scorning her denials.

She burst into a rage of tears, lifting her apron to her eyes, and flinging names at him that he scarcely heard.

There was a little cold tea in a cup close to him that Bessie had forgotten.  He stretched out his hand, and took a mouthful, moistening his dry lips and throat.

‘Yer’ll go to prison for this,’ he said, jerking it out as he put the cup down.

He saw her shiver.  Her nerve was failing her.  The convulsive sobs continued, but she ceased to abuse him.  He wondered when he should be able to get it out of her.  He himself could no more have wept than iron and fire weep.

’Are yer goin to tell me when yer took that money, and ’ow yer spent it?  ‘Cos, if yer don’t, I shall go to Watson.’

Even in her abasement it struck her as shameful, unnatural, that he, her husband, should say this.  Her remorse returned upon her heart, like a tide driven back.  She answered him not a word.

He put his silver watch on the table.

‘I’ll give yer two minutes,’ he said.

There was silence in the cottage except for the choking, hysterical sounds she could not master.  Then he took up his hat again, and went out into the snow, which was by now falling fast.

She remained helpless and sobbing, unconscious of the passage of time, one hand playing incessantly with a child’s comforter that lay beside her on the table, the other wiping away the crowding tears.  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.