"So _that_ was your motive," she said, with stinging, withering emphasis. "You clutched Mr. Fairman as a miser might clutch his hoard if his house took fire. It wasn't to save his life; it wasn't for Aunt Sophy's sake; he was merely a money sack. Henry, if you hadn't confessed it yourself I wouldn't have believed you were such a mercenary wretch. No wonder you looked ashamed." We had just reached the house, and I had no chance to clear my character before Marion ran upstairs and locked herself in her room, so I thought it politic to leave her in silence for a while. I was bristling with indignation, for while I hadn't pretended that my conduct was praiseworthy, I knew that I had not been cold-blooded and calculating enough to try to save Mr. Fairman from the motive she had suggested. Indeed, I saw that the explanation that I had formulated in response to Marion's insistent questions had no foundation in fact, except possibly a fragmentary impression that may have flashed across my mind for an instant during our imminent peril, yet I had been thick-headed enough to make it appear that I had been influenced by these considerations instead of confessing that I had invented them as an afterthought. I knew I should be able to make Marion see the matter in this light when she had been sufficiently long in seclusion; in the meantime, I went around to the rear of the house to find William Wedder and to settle my score with him. I met him looking for me, dressed up in his best clothes and carrying his red bundle and stick. "William," I said, in my most austere manner, "I haven't had a chance to tell you what I think of your con----" "No, sir," he broke in, "and I'm not calculatin' to give you a chance. I'm off." "You're--off!" I ejaculated, my anger suddenly displaced by dismay. "What--what's the matter?" "Well, sir," answered William, his face broadening to a grin, "there's several reasons why I'd better be off. One is, I'd rather go than be sacked; then, old Waydean, he's took the notion that I dressed up his pig, and Joe Wrigley says he's gone to swear out a summons." His manner was so coy, so engaging, so innocently virtuous and forbearing, that I could not refrain from an encouraging smile; somehow I seemed to know exactly how he felt--perhaps I, too, in some previous state of existence, had found it expedient to appear to know less than I did know. "What became of the pig, William?" I asked, in a tone that conveyed, I fear, more sympathy than reproof. "After you drove off so fast," he replied, "it turned onto the Stone Road, with old Waydean close behind, and that was the last I seen of them, but Joe Wrigley says they met a funeral near the Stone Road Cemetery, and there was a regular circus; after it was over I seen people drivin' past here lookin' as if they'd been at a Punch and Judy show."