She pointed to the haggard and trembling man.
Bessie turned to her reluctantly. "Aye, I'm sorry," she said sullenly. "But he shouldn't fly out at yer without 'earin' a word. 'Ow should I know anythin' about his money? 'Ee locked it up hisself, an' tuk the keys."
"An' them suverins," roared John, rattling his stick on the floor; "where did yer get them suverins?"
"I got 'em from old Sophy Clarke—leastways, from Sophy Clarke's lawyer. And it ain't no business o' yourn."
At this John fell into a frenzy, shouting at her in inarticulate passion, calling her liar and thief.
She fronted it with perfect composure. Her fine eyes blazed, but otherwise her face might have been a waxen mask. With her, in this scene, was all the tragic dignity; with him, the weakness and vulgarity.
At last the little widow caught her by the arm, and drew her from the door.
"Let me take 'im to my place," she pleaded: "it's no good talkin' while 'ee's like 'ee is—not a bit o' good. John—John, dear! you come along wi' me. Shall I get Saunders to come an' speak to yer?"
A gleam of sudden hope shot into the old man's face. He had not thought of Saunders; but Saunders had a head; he might unravel this accursed thing.
"Aye!" he said, lurching forward, "let's find Saunders—coom along—let's find Saunders."