“Tush, maybe I was only seeking that fine father of thine. Let go your hod, do you hear? Let go, or I'll—I'll—”
Rotha had dropped the woman's dress and grasped her shoulders. In another instant the slight pale-faced girl had pulled this brawny woman to her knees. They were close to the parapet of the bridge, and it was but a few inches high.
“As sure as God's in heaven,” cried Rotha with panting breath and flaming eyes, “I'll fling you into this river if you utter that lie again. Woman, give me the truth! Cast away these falsehoods, that would blast the souls of the damned in hell.”
“Get off. Wilta not? Nay, then, but I'll mak thee, and quick.”
The struggle was short. The girl was flung aside into the road.
Mrs. Garth rose from her knees with a bitter smile on her lips. “I mak na doubt 'at thou wouldn't be ower keen to try the same agen,” she said, going off. “Go thy ways to Doomsdale, my lass, and ax yer next batch of questions there. I've just coom't frae it mysel', do you know?”
Late the same evening, as the weary sun went down behind the smithy, Rotha hastened from the cottage at Fornside back to the house on the Moss at Shoulthwaite. She had a bundle of papers beneath her cloak, and the light of hope in her face.
The clew was found.