"I—I don't care to drink it," she stammered.
Mrs. Lomax glanced sharply at her; she had some acquaintance with Joe Strangeways' habits, and she read the situation aright.
"You must. Bring out a bottle this moment, and I shall watch you drink two glasses at the least."
Again the younger woman flushed, then grew pale with shame; she could answer nothing, with those two hawk-like eyes looking through and through her. The old lady's lips took to themselves a grim smile.
"About what time does your husband return from his work?" she demanded.
"He leaves the quarries at the half after five—but—you wouldn't be thinking of saying anything, Mrs. Lomax?"
"That is just what I am thinking of, my dear; it is five o'clock now, and I have not walked as much as I should like to-day. I will go towards the quarries and give your husband a straightforward piece of my mind. No, you need offer no excuses for him; when I make up my mind to a thing, I make it up, and there is an end of it." And with this the old lady marched out at the door, her back stiffened, her right hand flourishing the belligerent-looking stick which was her inseparable companion.
Strangeways, crossing the dip in the moor this side the quarries, was aware of a bony figure, three inches his master in point of height, standing across his path.
"Joe Strangeways, I want a word with you."