"Sue--the most honest gel in all the world--go to
prison?"
"Oh yes," said Pickles, "yer might call her honest; but w'en she goes
into a pawnshop an' comes hout agin wid a golden dimant locket a-hid in
her pocket, there are people as won't agree wid yer, an' that's the
solemn truth, Connie."
Connie's face was very white.
"I don't believe it," she said.
"Yer don't?" cried Pickles. "But I were there at the time. But for me
she would ha' been locked up long ago. But I tuk pity on her--'avin' my
own suspicions. I hid her and disguised her. Wot do yer think I come
'ere for so often but jest to comfort the poor thing an' bring her news
o' Giles? Then all of a suddn't my suspicions seemed confirmed. I
guessed wot I see is workin' in your mind--that some one else done it
an' putt the blame on 'er. Oh, I'm a born detective. I putt my wits in
soak, an' soon I spotted the guilty party. Bless yer, Connie! ye're
right--Sue be honest--honest as the day--noble, too--more nobler nor
most folk. Pore Sue! Pore, plain Cinderella! Oh, my word! it's beauteous
inside she be--an' you're beauteous outside. Outside beauty is
captiwatin', but the hinner wears best."
"Go on," said Connie; "tell me wot else you 'ave in yer mind."
"It's this: yer may own up to it, an' there's no use beatin' about the
bush. The guilty party wot stole the locket an' transferred it by
sleight-of-'and to poor Sue is no less a person than yer own father,
Connie Harris.
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