last. Drunk hard,--died of 't, yoh know. But SHE killed
him,--th' sin was writ down fur her. Never was a boy I loved
like him, when we was boys."

There was a short silence.

"Yoh're like yer mother," said Polston, striving for a lighter
tone. "Here,"--motioning to the heavy iron jaws. "She
never--let go. Somehow, too, she'd the law on her side in
outward showin', an' th' right. But I hated religion, knowin'
her. Well, ther' 's a day of makin' things clear, comin'."

They had reached the corner now, and Polston turned down the
lane.

"Yoh 'll think o' Yare's case?" he said.

"Yes. But how can I help it," Holmes said, lightly, "if I am
like my mother, here?"-- putting his hand to his mouth.

"God help us, how can yoh? It's hard to think father and mother
leave their souls fightin' in their childern, cos th' love was
wantin' to make them one here."

Something glittered along the street as he spoke: the silver
mountings of a low-hung phaeton drawn by a pair of Mexican
ponies. One or two gentlemen on horseback were alongside,
attendant on a lady within, Miss Herne. She turned her fair
face, and pale, greedy eyes, as she passed, and lifted her hand
languidly in recognition of Holmes. Polston's face coloured.