"
Foyle started. "To-day--to-day--"
There was a gleam in his eyes, a setting of the lips, a line sinking into
the forehead between the eyes.
"I've been watching for him all day, and I'll watch till he comes. I'm
going to say some things to him that he won't forget. I'm going to get
Bobby's money, or have the law do it--unless you think I'm a brute,
Nett." She looked at him wistfully.
"That's all right. Don't worry about me, Jo. He's my brother, but I know
him--I know him through and through. He's done everything that a man can
do and not be hanged. A thief, a drunkard, and a brute--and he killed a
man out here," he added hoarsely. "I found it out myself--myself. It was
murder."
Suddenly, as he looked at her, an idea seemed to flash into his mind. He
came very near and looked at her closely. Then he reached over and almost
touched the scar on her forehead.
"Did he do that, Jo?"
For an instant she was silent and looked down at the floor. Presently she
raised her eyes, her face suffused. Once or twice she tried to speak, but
failed. At last she gained courage and said:
"After Cynthy's death I kept house for him for a year, taking care of
little Bobby. I loved Bobby so--he has Cynthy's eyes.
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