“He does know!” she cried; and the honest indignation in her eyes, the indignation that she could no longer restrain, scorched him. For this was too much, this was more than even she, gentle as she was, could bear. “He does know all—all, Arthur!” she repeated severely. “That it was not you—not you, but Clement, Mr. Ovington, who saved him! And fought for him—that night! Oh, Arthur, for shame! For shame! I did not think so meanly of you as this! I did not think that you would rob another——” “What do you mean?” He tried to bluster afresh, but the stick shook in his hand. “Confound it, what do you mean?” “What I say,” she answered firmly. “And it is no use to deny it, for my father knows it. He knows all. He has seen Clement——” “Clement, eh?” bitterly. “Oh, it’s Clement now, is it?” He was white with rage and chagrin, furious at the failure of his last hope. “It’s that way, is it? You have gone over to that prig, have you? And he’s told you this?” “Yes.” “And you believe him?” “I do.” “You believe him against me?” “Yes,” she said, “for it is the truth, Arthur. I know that he would not tell me anything else.” “And I? Do you mean to say that I would?” She was silent. It was check and mate, the loss of his last piece, the close of the game—and he knew it. With all in his favor he had made one false move, then another and a graver one, and this was the end. He could not face it out. There was no more to be said, nothing more to be done, only shame and humiliation if he stayed. He flung a word of passionate incoherent abuse at her, and before she could reply he turned his back on her and strode away. Sorrowfully Jos watched him as he hurried along the path, cutting at the hedge with his stick, cursing his luck, cursing the trickery of others, cursing at last, perhaps, his own folly. She watched him until the ghostly hedges and the misty distances veiled him from sight. Ten minutes later he burst in upon his mother at the Cottage and demanded twenty pounds. “Give it me, and let me go!” he cried. “Do you hear? I must have it! If you don’t give it me, I shall cut my throat!” Scared by his manner, his haggard eyes, his look of misery, the poor woman did not even protest. She went upstairs and fetched the sum he asked for. He took it, kissed her with lips still damp with rain, and bidding her send his clothes as he should direct—he would write to her—he hurried out. CHAPTER XLII “I wun’t do it! I wun’t do it!” the Squire muttered stubbornly. “Mud and blood’ll never mix. Shape the chip as you will, ’tis part of the block! Girls’ whimsies are women’s aches, and they that’s older must judge for them. She’d only repent of it when ’twas too late, and I’ve paid my debt and there’s an end of it.”