"And Kitty gave the watch to Russell. Our Kitty!" says he, in a dazed way. "Kitty! And she making believe she didn't know aught of where it was! Telling a pack of miserable lies! Our Kitty! I wouldn't have believed it!" says he. "I blame Walter most," said Mary. "He is the oldest. If he were not so weak!" Strange to say, even in that moment, it angered me to hear her speak so of him. She might call me weak, if she liked; but not Walter. "Well, I must be off," father said, fetching a heavy sigh. "I never could have believed it of a child of mine. I'll see you by-and-by, Mary, and hear all about the matter. But it's not you that's to blame." "The first I heard of it was yesterday," says Mary, looking up into his face. "Yes, yes—I know," says father. Then he was gone, walking like an old man, and never casting one glance towards me: not one. Mother spoke next. She said in a dry sort of tone, "It'll half kill him. He's always thought so much of his Kitty." And I felt as if my heart would break: as if I couldn't bear any more: yet I wanted to hear all that Mary had to tell. I craved to know how she'd found out about the watch; and I was frightened for Walter, with a fear that he might have to go to prison for it. Being half-strangled with sobs, I made a sort of movement like going away, not knowing whether to go or stay; and mother said in that same dry voice— "Kitty, you are to stay." "I think Kitty ought to know the whole," Mary says gently. "I'll have everything open and above board. Kitty is to stay," said mother, looking at Mary, not at me. Then the tale came out slowly, bit by bit, as much as Mary knew. I think I'd best tell it, partly at all events, in my own words; for there were some things I heard later, not just at that moment, and I couldn't well separate them in memory. When Mary went home from Claxton, Walter didn't meet her at the station, as she expected; and when she got home, he wasn't there. The little maid that they kept to help, and to set Mary free for dressmaking, told her he'd had to go off somewhere, directly after dinner; she didn't know where, only he said it was business, and he'd be back as soon as possible. It was a half-holiday at the school, so he was able to get away. Mary had all the afternoon and evening alone: for he never turned up till quite late, somewhere about eleven o'clock. When he got in he was vexed to find Mary sitting up still. "It was absurd," he said, "after her illness!" and he would only talk of that, but wouldn't tell her where he had been. "Just a matter of business," he said. "What did women know of business?" If Mary had not been so worried, she must have smiled; for she had twice as good a business-head as he. But she was in no smiling mood. She knew too well that secrecy on his part meant mischief.