"Well, if you must know, I did take it to Moore's in St. Michael's Green to-day to have it valued. I found mother's keys on her dressing-table, and took a look into the box. You know I asked you about the necklet, and so don't put on that surprised face."
"I shall go to Moore's to-morrow and bring back the necklet," said Salome decidedly; "and I shall tell mother about it. It is only fair and right. Suspicion has fallen on the Pryors, and I must do it. I know I am right," she said confidently. "I shall get up very early to-morrow and go down into Harstone."
"What stuff! I will bring the thing back. Moore won't give it up to you; besides, the shops are not open till past eight. Don't be foolish, Salome."
"Raymond," she said, "please listen to me, and make a full confession of everything to mother and Uncle Loftus. Make a new beginning. O Raymond! think of our father—think of bringing dishonour on his name! Dear Raymond," she said, breaking down into tears, "I am so miserable about you; you might be such a comfort to mother and to me, and—"
Raymond was touched at last. He put his arm round his sister and said,—
"Don't cry, Salome. You see a fellow has heaps of things to do with his money that you know nothing of, and—still I will try to get out of Harstone. I shall never do any good in that hateful office. Come, don't cry. I will go down with you to-morrow and get that wretched necklet. I wish I had never heard of it."
She saw she could do no more that night, and left him, to creep into her mother's room, stifling her sobs, after exacting from Raymond a promise to be ready to go down to Harstone with her at half-past seven the next morning.
"I think Raymond's room is very cold," she said, as she lay down on her little bed by her mother, who was sleeping quietly; "I am shivering so. I hope I shall not wake mother."
The shivering was followed by heat and restlessness, and then Salome heard the clock of St. Luke's Church strike twelve, then one—two—three. She could not sleep. About five o'clock the wind began to rise and moan, then splashes of rain came against the window, and the March morning broke in storm and flood. Salome got up noiselessly as soon as it was light, and with eyes heavy from sleeplessness, and a heart heavier with shame and anxiety, dressed, and went softly down the passage to Raymond's room. She was anxious to avoid all observation, and to her great relief Raymond appeared, in answer to her tap at his door, in his ulster.
"It's an awful morning, Salome; you had better let me go alone."