He put his silver watch on the table.
"I'll give yer two minutes," he said.
There was silence in the cottage except for the choking, hysterical sounds she could not master. Then he took up his hat again, and went out into the snow, which was by now falling fast.
She remained helpless and sobbing, unconscious of the passage of time, one hand playing incessantly with a child's comforter that lay beside her on the table, the other wiping away the crowding tears. But her mind worked feverishly all the time, and gradually she fought herself free of this weeping, which clutched her against her will.
Isaac was away for an hour. When he came back, he closed the door carefully, and, walking to the table, threw down his hat upon it. His face under its ruddy brown had suffered some radical, disintegrating change.
"They've traced yer," he said hoarsely; "they've got it up to
twenty-six pound, an' more. Most on it 'ere in Clinton—some on it,
Muster Miles, o' Frampton, 'ull swear to. Watson 'ull go over to
Frampton, for the warrant—to-morrer."
The news shook her from head to foot. She stared at him wildly—speechless.
"But that's not 'arf," he went on—"not near 'arf. Do yer 'ear? What did yer do with the rest? I'll not answer for keepin' my 'ands off yer if yer won't tell."
In his trance of rage and agony, he was incapable of pity. He had small need to threaten her with blows—every word stabbed.
But her turn had come to strike back. She raised her head; she measured her news against his; and she did it with a kind of exultation.