She could not see what he was doing, but presently she knew that he had begun to unfold the paper from the things she had hidden in the pocket.

“Ah,” and he snorted.  One of the bits of paper held hairpins; another a side-comb; and another, a bit of trebly folded paper, proved to be an envelope—­the envelope of one of the letters that he had sent to her at North Ride Cottage.  He looked at the postmark.  The postmark told him that the envelope belonged to a letter he had written four days ago.

Then he found what she had put in the envelope before she folded it.  It was the return half of a railway ticket, from London to Rodchurch Road—­he turned it in his fingers and examined the date on the back of it.

“Last Friday, my lady.  Not to-day by any means—­and not Manninglea Cross.  Issued at Rodchurch Road o’ Friday last—­the day you come up to London.”

“Yes, Will, I won’t pretend any more.”

She had put her arms round his legs and lifted herself to a kneeling position.  “I did come Friday.  But don’t be angry with me.  Don’t fly out at me, and I—­I’ll explain everything.”

“May I make so bold ‘s t’a’ ask why you come, without my permission begged for nor given?”

His voice was terrible to hear, so deep and yet so harsh, and vibrating with such implacable wrath.

“Will, I did it for your sake.  I thought if I asked permission, you’d say no.  So I dared to do it myself—­feeling certain as life that you were done for if no help came—­and I thought it was my duty to bring you the help if I could.”

“Go on.  I’m listening, an’ I’m thinking all the time.”

“I thought—­Auntie thought so too—­she advised it—­that Mr. Barradine knowing me so long, ever since I was a girl, if I went direct to him—­”

“Ah!” And he made a loud guttural noise, as if on the point of choking.  “Ah—­so’s I supposed.  Then I got a bull’s-eye with my first thought to-night.  So you went to him.  Where?”

“At his house.”

“Yes, right into his house.  By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think to bring your aunt with you.  Two was to be comp’ny at Mr. Barradine’s.  So in you go—­alone—­without my leave—­behind my back.”

“Will—­remember yourself, my dear one.  You won’t blame, you can’t blame me.  But for him, you were done for.  All could see it, except you.  I asked for his help, and I got it.”

“But your next move!  We’re talking about Friday, aren’t we?  Well, after you’d bin to Mr. Barradine, what next?”

“Then I hoped he’d help us.”

“Yes, but Friday, Saturday, Sunday?  Had yer forgotten my address—­or didn’ ’aarpen to remember that I was in London, too?”

“I was afraid of your being angry.  I thought I’d better wait.”

“Where?”

She looked up at him, but did not answer.

“You’ve played me false.  You’ve sold yourself to that fornicating old devil.  You—­”