"Then I will tell yer—an' I 'ope it 'ull do yer good. I took thirty-one pound o' Bolderfield's money then—but it warn't me took the rest. Some one else tuk it, an' I stood by an' saw 'im. When I tried to stop 'im—look 'ere."
She raised her hand, nodding, and pointing to the wound on her brow.
Isaac leant heavily on the table. A horrible suspicion swept through him. Had she wronged him in a yet blacker way? He bent over her, breathing fast—ready to strike.
"Who was it?"
She laughed. "Well, it wor Timothy, then—yur precious—beautiful son—Timothy!"
He fell back.
"Yo're lyin'," he cried; "yer want to throw it off on some one. How cud Timothy 'ave 'ad anythin' to do with John's money? Timothy's not been near the place this three months."
"Not till lasst night," she said, mocking him. "I'll grant yer—not till lasst night. But it do 'appen, as lasst night Timothy took forty-one pound o' John Borroful's money out o' that box, an got off—clean. I'm sorry if yer don't like it—but I can't 'elp that; yo' listen 'ere."
And, lifting a quivering finger, she told her tale at last, all the beginning of it confused and almost unintelligible, but the scene with Timothy vivid, swift, convincing—a direct impression from the ugly, immediate fact.
He listened, his face lying on his arms. It was true, all true. She might have taken more and Timothy less; no doubt she was making it out as bad as she could for Timothy. But it lay between them—his wife and his son—it lay between them.