"Can you bear a bit o' pine?" said Pickles suddenly.
"Pain?" said Connie. "I've had a good deal lately. Yes, I think—I think I can bear it."
"Mind yer," said Pickles, "it's this w'y. I know w'y Sue left yer, and I know w'y she ain't come back. It's true she 'aven't give herself hup yet, although she guv me to understand as she were 'bout to go to prison."
"To prison?" said Connie, springing forward and putting her hand on Pickles's shoulder. "Sue—the most honest gel in all the world—go to prison?"
"Oh yes," said Pickles, "yer might call her honest; but w'en she goes into a pawnshop an' comes hout agin wid a golden dimant locket a-hid in her pocket, there are people as won't agree wid yer, an' that's the solemn truth, Connie."
Connie's face was very white.
"I don't believe it," she said.
"Yer don't?" cried Pickles. "But I were there at the time. But for me she would ha' been locked up long ago. But I tuk pity on her—'avin' my own suspicions. I hid her and disguised her. Wot do yer think I come 'ere for so often but jest to comfort the poor thing an' bring her news o' Giles? Then all of a suddn't my suspicions seemed confirmed. I guessed wot I see is workin' in your mind—that some one else done it an' putt the blame on 'er. Oh, I'm a born detective. I putt my wits in soak, an' soon I spotted the guilty party. Bless yer, Connie! ye're right—Sue be honest—honest as the day—noble, too—more nobler nor most folk. Pore Sue! Pore, plain Cinderella! Oh, my word! it's beauteous inside she be—an' you're beauteous outside. Outside beauty is captiwatin', but the hinner wears best."
"Go on," said Connie; "tell me wot else you 'ave in yer mind."
"It's this: yer may own up to it, an' there's no use beatin' about the bush. The guilty party wot stole the locket an' transferred it by sleight-of-'and to poor Sue is no less a person than yer own father, Connie Harris."