The woman moved rapidly, and yet carefully, so as not to disturb the now sleeping child, down the lane in the direction of Wainford. She had gone about a couple of hundred yards when the man who had been with her at the picnic came along the road. His face was flushed, and his gait distinguished by that unsteadiness which is displayed by the individual who is just on the brink of the drunkard’s seventh heaven. She shrank back and looked round, as if with the idea of avoiding him, but his sharp, black eyes--sharp even when dim with drink--saw her, and he came across the road. “Hallo, Liz,” he said, thickly, “whadger done? Wher’yer been? Is that the kid? Why----” He stopped short, and laid a hot hand upon the fur. “Where’d yer lift this?” “I didn’t lift it, Seth,” she replied. “It was lent to me by a gentleman. Have you got any money left, Seth? I want it for Lizzie; she’s that ill,” she added, with the cunning of her kind, knowing well that if she didn’t ask money of him he would of her. “Money! no,” he replied, with an oath. “It’s gone, every copper of it. Why didn’t you get some from the solt as gave you this? It’s a stunner!” he went on, stroking the fur lovingly, his eyes growing sharp and covetous. “This ’ere’s worth a mint o’ money--two or three pound, most like. Give it to me, Liz, and I’ll sell it to the landlord o’ the George.” “No, no, not this, Seth. It was given for Lizzie. Look how warm she is----” “Hang the kid!” he retorted, harshly; “wrap it in a sack--anything. What! Do you mean as you’d waste a valuable thing like this on a brat?” “Leave it alone,” she said, her voice changing from the pleading to the fierce. “Let go of it, Seth. You shan’t have it!” and her spare hand closed on it with the clutch--well, the clutch of a mother defending her child. The man snarled and snatched at the fur, and in doing so turned up a corner and showed the lining of crimson silk. There was something embroidered on it in gold thread, and he bent down to look at it. The design, whatever it was, had been partly picked out or cut away; but a portion of a crest and an initial still remained, and Seth’s eyes were glued to it for a moment. Then, in a changed voice, he said: “Who gave you this, Liz?” “I don’t know,” she panted. “Let it go, Seth. You shan’t have it, if I die for it. Let me go with the child.” “Hold your noise,” he said, between his teeth, and glancing round. “Who wants it? You may go to the devil, and the kid with you, for what I care. Just let me know where you got this skin, that’s all.” “I got it from the gent as lives in the cottage in the hollow, Seth,” she said, drawing the fur from his hand. “He was good to me, he was----” “He gave you money!” he said, sharply. “No, no money,” she replied, with ready falsehood; “nothing but the rug. But it wasn’t that; it was the way he spoke and handled poor Lizzie. And he says she’s bad, Seth! And I’ll lose her--yes, I’ll lose her like the rest.” Her voice broke. “Let me go!”