“Here,” said Crossley, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out half-a-crown, “take this to your granny and tell her to buy you some cake.” The elder child, young as she was, knew the value of money. She clutched the coin eagerly, and ran out of the room, followed by her small brother. “Them children, and myself, for that matter, are half starved,” said Mrs. Larkins. “I’ve worked ’ard, as you can see, sir, but I can’t make the two ends meet, no matter how I try. It do seem bitter ’ard, Mr. Crossley, that you should not let me have the twenty pounds my husband hid away for me. He knew well when he hid the money in that mug behind the dresser that an evil day would come. He knew I would be safe to find the money the first time I turned the room out. I say again, sir, it do seem ’ard you should have taken it, for it were meant for me.” “Shut up, woman,” said Crossley, “and let me speak. I did what I did for a good purpose, and could do no otherwise. Your husband’s trial comes on at the next assizes; he is certain to get his five years at the least.” “Do you think so, indeed, sir? Oh, my poor Bill. And whatever will become of me?” The woman raised her apron to her eyes and began to sob. “It is impossible for me to say. Now, listen and stop crying if you can. The fact is this; I know your case is a hard one. I have thought a good bit about you and that twenty pounds which your husband saved away for you in case he should be nabbed, as nabbed he was certain to be in the end.” “Yes, yes, sir, I am not going to defend him, but that money I do believe he come by honest.” “The less we talk on that subject, the better,” said Crossley. “Well, now, look here. I found the money, and as, of course, I ought, I took it with me because you had no possible right to it; but it so happens that at the present moment I have got twenty pounds in my pocket—here, in my waistcoat.” Crossley tapped himself as he spoke. “Oh, sir, _that_ twenty pounds?” “No matter to you what twenty pounds. I have twenty pounds in my pocket, and you shall have it—yes, every penny of it, all in gold sovereigns, too, if you’ll do what I want.” “I’m sure there’s nothing I would not do for the money,” began Mrs. Larkins. “Then that is all right; you are a sensible woman when all is said and done. Now, you just give me a little bit of information.” At these words the poor woman’s face, which had gradually begun to assume an expression of hope, turned once again to its old death-in-life appearance. She shook her head feebly, and taking up a long seam of needlework began to sew at it. “I cannot tell on poor Bill’s pals,” she said; “no, I can’t, it’s no use asking me, so there. I won’t give evidence agin them.” “Very well,” said Crossley, “I can only say I am sorry for you. It is quite out of my power to give you twenty pounds for nothing. If you help me, I’ll help you. That is fair and above board, isn’t it? Now, will you speak or will you not?”