The girl Glad sat clinging to her knees, her eyes wide and awed and with
a sudden gush of hysteric tears rushing down her cheeks.

"That's the wye! That's the wye!" she gulped out. "No one won't
never believe--they won't, NEVER. That's what she sees, Miss Montaubyn.
You don't, 'E don't," with a jerk toward the curate. "I ain't nothin'
but ME, but blimme if I don't--blimme!"

Sir Oliver Holt grew paler still. He felt as he had done when Jinny
Montaubyn's poor dress swept against him. His voice shook when he
spoke.

"So do I," he said with a sudden deep catch of the breath; "it was the
Answer."

In a few moments more he went to the girl Polly and laid a hand on her
shoulder.

"I shall take you home to your mother," he said. "I shall take you
myself and care for you both. She shall know nothing you are afraid of
her hearing. I shall ask her to bring up the child. You will help
her."

Then he touched the thief, who got up white and shaking and with eyes
moist with excitement.

"You shall never see another man claim your thought because you have not
time or money to work it out. You will go with me. There are to-morrows
enough for you!"