“And then,” she cried, “to bring up that old affair against him, when it had proved the very making of his character! The error of a boy, sir, ignorant of what he was doing, though I don’t defend it; but he had pledged things for his father when alive, and he knew nothing of the law. It was a girl egged him on to it, and Charlie never could resist a pretty face. But it was a lesson and a warning that he never forgot--no not, as the dear God shall witness, when he walked on that last round that ruined him.” She blinked away the tears that would come. “It is very sad,” said Gilead--“horribly sad indeed.” “Yes, sir,” she answered, “it is sad; but I did not come to urge the feelings of a mother, or her love and faith in her boy. All that could be said was said, as you concluded, at the trial; and, appearances being what they were, no other verdict could have been expected. I remember my promise to you, and I am not going to suppose that what was argued in his defence, without avail, by a clever lawyer can be put more convincingly by me. What I founded the only hope I possess on is what brought me to pray Mr Nestle to procure me, if possible, this interview with you. I want to know, sir, what part the girl Jennett had in my son’s ruin.” Gilead had been looking down. He raised his head with a start. “Who did you say?” he asked quickly: “Jennett?” The little visitor had been groping in her pocket, from which she now produced a paper which she unfolded and brought across to him. It was a front page of the _Daily Post_, dated some days back, and marked round in red ink was the very advertisement which had excited the young man’s curiosity. He looked up, in surprised enquiry. “Is it not an uncommon name, sir?” she said. “A most uncommon one, I should think,” he answered. “I saw and remarked upon it at the time.” “The person that advertised it must have been so sure of its uncommonness,” she said, “that he felt nothing more was needed to explain the who to and where from.” Gilead nodded. The little shrewd well-spoken woman had echoed his own thoughts. She bent, and touched his arm, softly, impressively. “Jennett, sir,” she said, “was the name of the servant-girl that took the packet from my son’s hand at the door, and went away and returned with the signed receipt, and afterwards swore at the trial that she had never taken the packet and never given a receipt.” Gilead had risen, and was listening attentively, with a wondering look on his face.