Faradeane’s head drooped, and, with a half-suppressed sigh, he laid his hand on Bertie’s shoulder.
“Hush!” he said. “Let us go in now and get some lunch.”
The woman moved rapidly, and yet carefully, so as not to disturb the now sleeping child, down the lane in the direction of Wainford.
She had gone about a couple of hundred yards when the man who had been with her at the picnic came along the road.
His face was flushed, and his gait distinguished by that unsteadiness which is displayed by the individual who is just on the brink of the drunkard’s seventh heaven.
She shrank back and looked round, as if with the idea of avoiding him, but his sharp, black eyes—sharp even when dim with drink—saw her, and he came across the road.
“Hallo, Liz,” he said, thickly, “whadger done? Wher’yer been? Is that the kid? Why——” He stopped short, and laid a hot hand upon the fur. “Where’d yer lift this?”
“I didn’t lift it, Seth,” she replied. “It was lent to me by a gentleman. Have you got any money left, Seth? I want it for Lizzie; she’s that ill,” she added, with the cunning of her kind, knowing well that if she didn’t ask money of him he would of her.
“Money! no,” he replied, with an oath. “It’s gone, every copper of it. Why didn’t you get some from the solt as gave you this? It’s a stunner!” he went on, stroking the fur lovingly, his eyes growing sharp and covetous. “This ’ere’s worth a mint o’ money—two or three pound, most like. Give it to me, Liz, and I’ll sell it to the landlord o’ the George.”
“No, no, not this, Seth. It was given for Lizzie. Look how warm she is——”