Yes, he knew her, that was plain; and the first thing he did was to break into his pitiful cry of "Gone, gone!—all gone, Daisy!" But suddenly he paused, as if with a new thought, looked round eagerly, and tried to draw Daisy closer, muttering, "Daisy, don't you tell, now don't you tell. I've something to say to you."
The two women kindly moved away, and stood in the window, talking. Daisy bent towards him. "Yes, father," she said.
"I durstn't do anything. She'd maybe pay me out," whispered Isaac. "But mind you, Daisy, it's she has gone and taken the money. It's she. See you look out sharp and get it back, else you'll be a workhouse lass, Daisy."
Isaac's pointing thumb left no doubt as to his meaning.
"O no no, indeed," said Daisy hurriedly. "O, father. It's nothing of that sort. You mustn't think so for a moment, for it's quite untrue."
"Who was it, if it wasn't she?" demanded Isaac.
"It was somebody else," said Daisy; "somebody who got in through your window, and who had man's boots. The police know that, but they can't tell who it was. Nobody can tell. Only it was a man, father, not a woman."
"When ever is the money a-going to be found?" demanded Isaac.
He had asked that question often of Mary Davis during the last month, as she had cared for him and tended him in his helplessness, toiling hard without hope of reward, for love of Daisy; and she had answered often, to soothe him, "Oh, I dare say it won't be long first, Mr. Meads. You must have patience."
But Daisy laid her hand upon his, and said gently, "I think—perhaps—never, father."