Isaac leant heavily on the table.  A horrible suspicion swept through him.  Had she wronged him in a yet blacker way?  He bent over her, breathing fast—­ready to strike.

‘Who was it?’

She laughed.  ’Well, it wor Timothy then—­yur precious—­beautiful son—­ Timothy!’

He fell back.

‘Yo’re lyin,’ he cried; ’yer want to throw it off on some one.  How cud Timothy ’ave ’ad anythin to do with John’s money?  Timothy’s not been near the place this three months.’

‘Not till lasst night,’ she said, mocking him; ’I’ll grant yer—­not till lasst night.  But it do ’appen, as lasst night Timothy took forty-one pound o’ John Borroful’s money out o’ that box, an got off—­clean.  I’m sorry if yer don’t like it—­but I can’t ’elp that; yo listen ‘ere.’

And lifting a quivering finger she told her tale at last, all the beginning of it confused and almost unintelligible, but the scene with Timothy vivid, swift, convincing—­a direct impression from the ugly immediate fact.

He listened, his face lying on his arms.  It was true, all true.  She might have taken more and Timothy less; no doubt she was making it out as bad as she could for Timothy.  But it lay between them—­his wife and his son—­it lay between them.

’An I ‘eard yer comin,’ she ended; ’an I thought I’d tell yer—­an I wor frightened about the ’arf-crowns—­people ’ad been talkin so at Dawson’s—­an I didn’t see no way out—­an—­an—­’

She ceased, her hand plucking again at the comforter, her throat working.

He, too, thought of the loving words he had said to her, and the memory of them only made his misery the more fierce.

‘An there ain’t no way out,’ he said violently, raising his head.  ’Yer’ll be took before the magistrates next week, an the assizes ull be in February, an yer’ll get six months—­if yer don’t get more.’

She got up from her chair as though physically goaded by the words.

‘I’ll not go to gaol,’ she said, under her breath.  ‘I’ll not—­’

A sound of scorn broke from Isaac.

‘You should ha thought o’ that,’ he said.  ‘Yo should ha thought o’ that.  An what you’ve been sayin about Timothy don’t make it a ’aporth the better—­not for you!  Yo led ’im into it too—­if it ’adn’t been for yo, ‘ee’d never ha’ seen the cursed stuff.  Yo’ve dragged ’im down worse nor ’ee were—­an yerself—­an the childer—­an me.  An the drink, an the lyin!—­it turns a man’s stomach to think on it.  An I’ve been livin with yer—­these twelve years.  I wish to the Lord I’d never seen yer—­as the children ’ud never been born!  They’ll be known all their life now—­ as ’avin ‘ad sich a woman for their mother!’

A demon of passion possessed him more and more.  He looked at her with murderous eyes, his hand on the table working.