“Dorland,” she answered, her face setting into determination and anxiety.
His face became pinched. “Dorl!” he said, heavily. “What for, Jo? What do you want with Dorl?”
“When Cynthy died she left her five hundred dollars a year to the baby, and—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Well, Jo?”
“Well, it was all right for five years—Dorland paid it in; but for five years he hasn’t paid anything. He’s taken it, stolen it from his own child by his own honest wife. I’ve come to get it—anyway, to stop him from doing it any more. His own child—it puts murder in my heart, Nett! I could kill him.”
He nodded grimly. “That’s likely. And you’ve kept Dorl’s child with your own money all these years?”
“I’ve got four hundred dollars a year, Nett, you know; and I’ve been dressmaking—they say I’ve got taste,” she added, with a whimsical smile.
Nett nodded his head. “Five years. That’s twenty-five hundred dollars he’s stolen from his own child. It’s eight years old now, isn’t it?”
“Bobby is eight and a half,” she answered.
“And his schooling, and his clothing, and everything; and you have to pay for it all?”