"What?"
"They say your uncle found the pocketbook that was lost and kept the money. They say he was the first man that went up the road after it was lost."
Now The Thing stood uncovered before me in all its ugliness—The Thing born not of hate but of the mere love of excitement in people wearied by the dull routine and the reliable, plodding respectability of that countryside. The crime of Amos had been a great help in its way but as a topic it was worn out and would remain so until court convened.
"It's a lie—my uncle never saw the pocketbook. Some money was left to him by a relative in Vermont. That's how it happened that he bought a farm instead of going to the poorhouse when Grimshaw put the screws on him."
"I knew that your uncle didn't do it," she went on. "Father and mother couldn't tell you. So I had to."
"Why couldn't your father and mother tell me?"
"They didn't dare. Mr. Grimshaw made them promise that they would not speak to you or to any of your family. I heard them say that you and your uncle did right. Father told mother that he never knew a man so honest as your Uncle Peabody."
We went on in silence for a moment.
"I guess you know now why I couldn't let you go home with me that night," she remarked.
"Yes, and I think I know why you wouldn't have anything more to do with Henry Wills."