But reflection brought comfort; there would be heaps of ways of managing the money.
Denise put her arms round Cyril's neck and pleaded for silence for her friend; let the stigma of thief fall on another woman, and wondered why she had found so easy a way out.
"I don't blame you, Den—don't cry." He held his wife closely. "But don't lie to me, girl! Don't! even to save other people. I must have truth. Must—and—will. The past's past; the future's mine, Denise, remember that."
He held her away a little, so that he could see her face. "You took some money out to send this wretched woman to-day. Don't send it now. How much was it?"
"It was not all for her, Cyril; she wanted—fifty," stammered Denise. "I got a lot—I was thinking of buying those ponies and the little trap for the boys as a surprise. You know, Edwardes' pair."
It was a good lie this time; he had no suspicion.
"Well, put your money back," he said kindly. "I'll get that. I'll put it in for you to-morrow ... send it for you."
Denise Blakeney did not sleep that night; and next day, driving into the town, she lost a valuable ring; it was loose, must have slipped off in her glove.
Esmé, opening the parcel, read a letter which surprised her.
"You were mad to write, Esmé, mad! All kinds of things have happened, and I cannot tell you. Take these stones out to sell them. I've said I lost the ring. And don't go to Benhusan's."