"That's the wye! That's the wye!" she gulped out. "No one won't never believe—they won't, never. That's what she sees, Miss Montaubyn. You don't, 'e don't," with a jerk toward the curate. "I ain't nothin' but me, but blimme if I don't—blimme!"
Sir Oliver Holt grew paler still. He felt as he had done when Jinny Montaubyn's poor dress swept against him. His voice shook when he spoke.
"So do I," he said with a sudden deep catch of the breath; "it was the Answer."
In a few moments more he went to the girl Polly and laid a hand on her shoulder.
"I shall take you home to your mother," he said. "I shall take you myself and care for you both. She shall know nothing you are afraid of her hearing. I shall ask her to bring up the child. You will help her."
Then he touched the thief, who got up white and shaking and with eyes moist with excitement.
"You shall never see another man claim your thought because you have not time or money to work it out. You will go with me. There are to-morrows enough for you!"
Glad still sat clinging to her knees and with tears running, but the ugliness of her sharp, small face was a thing an angel might have paused to see.
"You don't want to go away from here," Sir Oliver said to her, and she shook her head.
"No, not me. I told yer wot I wanted. Lemme do it."