A lady and her husband

by Amber Reeves Blanco White

So that was it—Florrie was a thief. An hour ago Mary would have been shocked by this, now she was angry, giddy with anger. This world in which she had been happy for so long had become intolerable, and Mary resented it. It was monstrous that these things should happen, and that no one should care. Mary's indignation consumed all thought of guilt or care of responsibility. She turned to Miss Percival with a decision which the morning had not yet found in her. "What are we to do?" she said. "They must have something to eat, and I suppose we'd better get back that bracelet without loss of time?"

Miss Percival agreed. "I wish," she added, "that we could get hold of the man!"

Mary shivered. To face a man like that was more, she thought, than she could do.

Then she went over to Florrie. "My dear," she said, "if you'll put on your hat and show us where the bracelet is, we'll get it back for you, and we must bring a pie or something for your dinner." Mary had a vague feeling that poor people generally eat pork pies for dinner.

Florrie stood up. She looked stupid, as though she did not quite understand. "'E's outside!" she said. "Followed me 'ome."

Mary was startled. She could hardly believe that the unspeakable evil thing was so close. "He won't hurt you when we're with you," she told Florrie, but her heart beat faster. The girl put on her hat and they left the room without another thought of Mrs. Wilson. She was lying back against her pillow, her swollen face pale and distorted, and she did not speak.

When they reached the street Mary looked round her fearfully, almost as though she had a sense of guilt. She felt as if she were taking a furtive peep at an indecent picture. There was no one near the garden gate of No. 100, but some way off on the other side of the street a man was leaning wearily against a lamp-post. "That's 'im!" said Florrie. "'E'll follow us—you see!"

They turned off down the street and Mary knew for the first time the choking excitement of the chase. She would not look round to see whether the man was following, every instinct forbade it, but she could not help wishing that Florrie would do it for her. This did not seem likely; Florrie's eyes were fixed far ahead, and every line of her shoulders expressed an unyielding singleness of purpose. It was extraordinary that she did not seem to mind whether the man were there or not. Even the bold Miss Percival was looking at the ground. Mary's nervousness increased—he might, for all they knew, be quite close to them! Finally, at a corner, she found that she had looked round without meaning to. The man was there, about twenty paces behind. He was little and young and fair and very unhappy, not at all the red, gross creature he ought to have been and that Mary had expected. She covered the rest of the distance in a tumult of nerves that did not allow her to see where she was going.

It was only as they entered the door of a shop that she made an effort to recover her self-command. This, of course, must be the pawnbroker's.

Mary had never been into a pawn-shop before, and she expected to find it an interesting place. It was not. Neither the empty counter before them nor the walls of the compartment that hemmed them in presented any features of interest. The young man behind the counter was not even, as it happened, a Jew.