“And is that everything you want to tell me?” asked Mr. Lewis, bending down in answer to a faint gesture.
The dying man signed for the cup in the doctor’s hand, and, when a few more drops had been poured down his throat, he spoke again.
“There’s the money too.”
“What money, my man?”
“My money. I’ve a mortal lot—the box below the bed. It’s for her, an’ you’ll tell her it warn’t him, not Rhys Walters. It’s to keep her. ’Tis all I can do now.”
“But who do you mean, Evans? Try to tell me.”
“Mary—Mary Vaughan. She was a good lass, an’ ’twas me killed him.”
His voice paused, but his lips moved, and the Vicar could just distinguish the word “box.”
“Shall I draw it out from under the bed?”