"My solemn word of honour, 'tis no more than a little trashy joney of glass—a keepsake of one long dead. Not worth a shilling to anybody but me. Leave that. Since five won't satisfy you I'll make it ten. Then I'm a ruined woman."
"Give me that box—else I'll take it," said Putt firmly.
"Not that, not that; if you'm a man, don't touch it. 'Tis everything to me, nought to nobody else. I was lying—I was lying to 'e. I be in such a hurry. I've got more than I said—just a few pounds. Fifty-fifty sovereigns in paper—twenty-five apiece to let me go my way."
"That's better," said Putt. "I'll close at that if you will, Mark."
"Not me—not now. Her's lying still. Us have got her, now us'll squeeze her. Us must see what's in that box—money or no money. I lay 'tis stuffed with diamonds."
"Oh, Christ!" cried the woman. "What 'tis to deal with two pig-headed fools! Here—here be a hundred pounds—take it and let me pass."
She turned from them, dived in her breast and flourished the notes before their faces.
"Pretty money seemingly, but not enough," said Bickford. "I lay there's thousands hid where your damned old heart beats. An' not a penny of it but what was stolen."
"An' I be more set than ever on seeing the inside of that there li'l box," added Putt stolidly. "An' I be going to, or God's my judge, I'll take you to Prince Town, Lovey Lee."
The woman stared helplessly upon them.