The child glanced up with startled air and, peering through the twisted tendrils, caught sight of the speaker. Encouraged by the kind voice and seeing its owner was in European dress, she replied in the best English she could muster, the words broken by sobs:
"Please, sah, Missus say I done steal gold ring. I never done no such ting. My heart done break. I not want to live one minute more. I go drown in tank!"
"Then you did not touch your Missus' ring, little girl?"
"Oh, no, no, I not once touch Missus' ring," wailed the child. "But what I do? Nobody believin' me. Ramaswamy butler hurt werry sore to make me 'fess," and again the dusky head was bent in low weeping.
"What's the matter with your hand?" asked Mr. Morpeth, observing that her right hand was rolled in a comer of her red saree. "Let me see it!"
The small brown hand was obediently held out, showing swollen and bleeding fingers. Little chips of wood, of which some fragments remained, had been pushed under the nails, lacerating the flesh.
"H'm, torture! Just as I suspected!" muttered Mr. Morpeth. "Who did this?"
"Butler done take me into godown make me 'fess. When I no 'fess, he make fingers plenty sore"; and again the child burst into convulsive sobs.
Just then the sound of voices was heard, and the girl leapt from her hiding-place with a look of terror, only to come into view of a stout matron and a young lady who were approaching the dividing hedge between their own and their neighbour's compound.
"There's the little thief, I declare!" exclaimed the young lady, catching a glimpse of the red saree. "And see this gap in the hedge, she's no doubt made it flying from justice."