Peace was sadly depressed as he listened to the words the gipsy had let fall. Still he clung to hope, even as a drowning man clings to a straw.
“It’s a bad business,” he murmured in a sorrowful tone—“a dreadful business. It was a fatal evening, upon which I had to fly for my very life.”
“It’s ugly altogether,” returned Rawton, “for one doesn’t know what may follow.”
“There, that will do. Don’t make matters worse for us by anticipating fresh misfortunes. Look after Tommy, and do your best for him. I’ll leave him in your hands.”
“Are you going anywhere, then?”
“Yes, to Whitechapel.”
“Very well, I’ll do my best.”
“And so I leave my favourite in your hands for the present.”
Peace took his departure, and Rawton remained.
He did not leave the Evalina-road for the remainder of that day.