“It’s all right now, Becky. Don’t try to talk,” whispered Mahala, taking the straying hand in both of hers and holding it close against her breast. “We found the pocket book. It’s all right now.” “But I must talk!” panted Rebecca. “I must hear you say that you forgive me. You had been kind to me, you had fed me, you told me that the little house on the River Road was your home. I thought I was repaying you for your promise to help me in my search. I thought I was doing a thing that would surprise and please you. Junior said you would be so surprised when you found the money in your home.” In bitterness Mahala bowed her head over Rebecca’s hand. For an instant her mind worked over that thought. The sardonic humour of Junior saying that she would be surprised when the money was found in her home! Certainly she would have been if it had been found there. A chill shook her as she paused a moment concentrating on the quality of Junior’s mind. He must have known that to have the money found in her home would kill Elizabeth Spellman as cruelly as death could be inflicted; that it would possibly fasten lasting disgrace on her; yet he had done his best to accomplish those things. Recalled by Rebecca’s clinging hand, she tried to comfort her. She said to her: “Since every one knows now that I never touched the pocket book, it’s all right, Becky. Don’t try to talk any more. Lie quiet so that you will soon be better.” But Rebecca shook her head. “First I had to have your forgiveness,” she said. “Now I must see Martin Moreland.” Mahala turned to Albert Rich. “Step to Mr. Moreland’s private office and ask him to come here,” she said. Albert Rich assented, but he returned in a minute saying that Mr. Moreland refused to come. The wave of whiteness that swept Rebecca’s face, and the spasm of pain that shook her body, both reacted upon Mahala. She lifted her head. “Mr. Moreland has no option,” she said steadily. “He is no longer the controlling factor in the life of this town.” She nodded to the sheriff and to Albert Rich. “Once he worked his will on me without authority. Now it is my turn. Bring him here.” Forced by a strong man on either side of him, Martin Moreland stood at the feet of Rebecca Sampson. For what seemed an endless time to the tensely silent people waiting in the room, Rebecca’s eyes studied Martin Moreland. Then she cried to him: “That my soul may pass from this foot-sore body in peace, tell me, Martin Moreland, was I a scarlet woman?”