"Don’t speak like that, David. Who can tell? Say nothing till time works its way. If I hurt to heal, forgive me; and if I’m wrong, I’ll beg for you to forgive me. But I’m not wrong. It all joins together very straight and smooth. She’s gone beyond finding, else they’d have found her by now." "Gone beyond finding." "Surely. There’s not a brake or pit this side of Princetown, and not a house and not a ruin that some man haven’t hunted through and through for her. But they’ll have to hunt the ships of the sea afore they’ll find your wife that was. She’s gone---she went the same time that Bartley Crocker went--to an hour. Oh, David, she’s with him! Find him and you’ll find her. That’s the awful truth of it--clear--clear as truth can be, and ’tis the worst that have ever fallen to me that I had to tell you. But only I knew, and too well I knew through the bitter past." He stared at her and laughed. "What a clever woman you are--and so wonderful understanding!" "She’s happy enough, if that’s anything. She’s got what she played for--she’s--" His voice rose in a sudden yell. "Leave her name alone! Don’t you take her name in your mouth again or I’ll silence you for evermore!" "I’m not afraid," she answered. "I’m doing what God Almighty drives me to do. If I fail, I fail. I knew ’twas life or death. You can silence me when you please and how you please. And the sooner the better; for if you’re going to hate me, I’d want to die as quick as you can put me out of the way." "Go on," he said quietly. "I’m sorry I roared. You needn’t fear me. Say what you want to say. Explain just what you think you know." "I’ve said it. O’ Sunday night, when I came back from Ditsworthy, I spoke out to her. I couldn’t hold it in no more. ’Twas poisoning me heart and soul. I was going to tell you, but there came the boys and father’s sickness held my tongue. Then I met her--your wife with that man--Crocker--and he kissed her--God’s my judge if I don’t tell you truth. And that night I spoke to her and told her all I knew and all I’d seen. I’d watched them many a time--spied if you like--but only for you--only for your honour’s sake. And I taxed her with it--with being untrue to you." He put up his hand and she was silent. He struggled to master himself and succeeded for one moment more. "And what did she answer?" "She denied it, but--" "And Christ will deny you, you wretch!" he thundered out. "All’s clear--all’s clear now! You thought to damn her; but you’ve damned yourself--damned your own soul through the blazing eternity of hell!" He leapt up and she faced him without flinching. "I know what I know," she said. "Then know a little more than you know!" He seized her by the wrist and dragged her into the adjoining room. It was dark. Only blankets that covered the dead made a streak of pallid light in the gloom.