“Ray Burton.”
“Yes. You may find him in that great country. If he lives I look for him back here to stand his trial. You can tell him that much, Wilfred. And if he does not live ... earth has lost another noble soul.”
They faced each other in the brightening dawn. Suddenly, as if almost overwhelmed by a great thought that had nearly escaped him, Wilfred staggered forward, clutching Miss Vane by the shoulders.
“Oh! Miss Vane,” he cried, “Hi know ’oo took the money. Hi know ’oo took it.”
It was her turn to stagger. “You know, Wilfred! Speak! Quick, tell me all!”
“Hit was Riles. ’E threw the bottle that might ’a killed Burton—’e hadmitted it—han’ ’e took the money, too. Hi haccused ’im of it, han’ the wy ’e acted Hi know ’e did.”
“But can you prove it? Give me your proof,” she demanded.
“Hi ’ave no proof, but Hi ’ave told yuh ’oo took the money. P’raps the proof ’ull turn hup yet.”
“God grant it so,” exclaimed the girl fervently. “At least, now I know that Burton is innocent.”
“Yuh don’t mean tuh sy yuh ever thought hit was Burton, do yuh?” demanded the boy, and there was a reproach in his tone that cut. “Yuh never thought that, did yuh?”