Gerald never moved, never took his eyes off that packet, never answered.

Then he walked closer to it, picked it up, dropped it, and sank into a chair, still a white faced, speechless man.

The farmer watched him for a whole minute. Then he sneeringly remarked:

"Been robbed of the money, eh?"

Gerald had to moisten his lips before he could ejaculate the word:

"Yes."

Then the farmer laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh.

He rose to his feet and pointed to the door. He uttered but one word:

"Go!"

"Father!"

"Silence, girl! and stand aside from that lying cheat."

"Cheat!"

Gerald spoke the last word. There was an air of unnatural calm about the farmer, as he answered:

"Cheat! Fraud! Liar! Bunco-steerer; we're a long way from the sheriff, or, by the God that's in the heaven above, I'd lodge you in jail to-night."

"Lodge—me—in—jail!"

"For robbing me of fifty pounds."

"Robbing!"

"Do you think I don't see through your trickery? Do you take me for a hayseed because I'm a farmer? Do you think I believe a word of what you say?

"Tell me—tell me again that you had nineteen thousand pounds in that vest of yours, and that you've been robbed of it."

"I sewed—it—in—myself."

Again the farmer laughed—that unpleasant laugh of his.

Then he walked to the wall and took down a whip—a stock whip with a long thong. He drew the lash through his fingers and said:

"This farmhouse has sheltered a thief long enough. I look on that fifty pounds as lost. I give you two minutes to get the other side of that door. If you're not gone then, I'll write a receipt on your back with this lash. So help me, God!"

"Father!"

"Stand back, girl!—this is no place for you."

"Father——"

"Stand back, I say. You're my flesh and blood—the flesh and blood of honest people; you want no truck with carrion like this."

"Farmer, you think I have robbed you——"

"Thief!"

"You think that I——"

"Thief!"

"I, who wanted to——"

"Thief!"

Gerald walked to the door. Tessie sprang to it, too, and said:

"Gerald!"

"Tessie, I—answer me, lassie; it looks black enough, God knows. Answer me! Do you think I lied when I told you——"

"No, Gerald; I believe in you now as I did then."

"Thank God!"

"My own flesh and blood turnin' agin' me!"

"Farmer, I——"

"Thief!"

"Listen to——"

"Thief!"

"Father!"

"Stand aside, child, and let that thief go out—out before I lash him like the dog he is."

"No, father, you wrong him, you wrong me. He is my promised husband. If he is turned out, I go with him."

And once more the farmer muttered:

"My own flesh and blood turnin' agin' me!"

"Tessie, my little girl."

Gerald had his arms round her waist, and drew her to him as he spoke.

"God bless you for those words. They put heart, life, and courage into me. But this is your home. Stay here, girlie, till I fetch you from it—till I have found the money of which I have been robbed."

"Gerald!"

"My girlie," there was a little tremble in his voice, "the sky looked so clear and bright as we came to the farm, and it looks all drear and black now I am leaving it. But the blackest cloud has a silver lining, and I know that money is in America.

"I've got to find it, Tessie, and I'm going right away now to do it. Right away into New York, and you won't see me back here again until I come with the money; until I come to make your father apologize for calling an honest man a thief, and admit that it doesn't always do to judge by appearances."

"Gerald!"

"Oh, I don't blame him, lass; things look black, cruelly black; and if he knew all, he'd be more full of wonder than unjust rage. I sewed those notes into this vest myself, Tessie, and sleeping or waking, girlie, it has never left my body."

"Where—where, Gerald, can the notes be?"

"That, lass, I am going to New York to find out. A kiss, girlie; just one. You'll see me back; trust me."

"I do, Gerald—trust you with all my heart and soul."

"Mrs. Depew, you don't feel so strong about this matter as the farmer; you don't know quite so much. If he's inclined to be rough on this girl here, remember that I tell you that when she defends me, she defends an honest man.

"You told me once that you knew by my eyes I could never tell a woman a lie. I'm looking you straight in the face now, Mrs. Depew, and I tell you that I sewed that money in my vest myself."

"Why," blurted out the farmer, "why didn't——"

"Hold on, there, farmer—you've said enough. I've taken such words from you to-night as no living man can say he has ever uttered to me before. I don't want to hear you talk now. Later on, I'll listen—listen when you beg my pardon for your injustice; as you shall, by God! Good-night."

And he passed through the doorway, out on to the road, his face towards the capital.