[CHAPTER XXVI.]
In sight of this new danger I was speechless. I had no power to define its nature or to examine it with a clear mind, but I could not resist the foreboding that a grievous burden was added to my pack of woe. There was an airy insolence, a light-hearted mockery in Maxwell's voice which betokened that he had reached a haven for which he had been searching; and I knew from old experience that this was a sign of evil.
"You don't appear to recognize me, dear John. Am I so changed, or is it that you have not recovered from the shock of the loss we have sustained? Our poor Barbara! Lost to us forever. She had her faults, but she has atoned for them, and is now in a better world. Let that be our consolation. Find your voice, old man, and bid me welcome."
"You are not welcome," I said, endeavoring to keep command of myself. "You have brought misery enough upon me. No living link gives you now a place in my life."
"True; but dead links are stronger and more binding. How they drop away, those who are dear to us! One burnt to death, another murdered in cold blood!"
Everything swam before me. The paper rustled in my trembling hand; the shouts of the newsboy: "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible murder!" fell upon my ears with a muffled sound, though he was but a few yards away, charged with dread import. I knew that Maxwell continued to speak, but I did not hear what he was saying till he shook me by the shoulder.
"You are inattentive, dear John. The latest murder the newsboy is calling out fascinates you. I see you have bought a newspaper off him; they are selling like wildfire. All over London they are screaming—'Murder, murder; horrible murder!' But you are shaking with cold. It will be better—and safer—to converse in your room, where we can read the news you have waited for so long. How true is the old adage, 'Murder will out!' After you, brother-in-law. The host takes the lead, you know. Tread softly, softly!"
He spoke with the air of one who holds the man he is addressing in the hollow of his hand, but he was always a braggart. In the midst of my terror and despair that thought came—this man Maxwell was always a braggart. I would hear what he had to say, and speak myself as little as possible till he was done. Thus much made itself intelligible to my dazed senses. So I led the way into the house, and up the stairs to my room, Maxwell following at my heels. Safe within, he turned the key gently in the lock.
"We can't be too careful, John, when life and liberty are at stake. And you would have sent me away—me, your only friend, the one man in the world who can save you from the gallows!"