“You are not exempt from the consequences of a crime like this. Now, get on your knees.”
Whimpering, Poritol kneeled.
“Stay in that position.”
“Oh, sir—oh, my very dear sir. I——”
“Stay there!” thundered Orme.
Poritol was still, but his lips moved, and his interlaced fingers worked convulsively.
As Orme walked away, he stopped now and then to look back. Poritol did not move, and Orme long carried the picture of that kneeling figure.
“Who was it?” asked Bessie Wallingham, as he climbed back over the fence.
“A puppy with sharp teeth,” he replied, thinking of what the girl had said. “We might as well forget him.”
She studied him in silence, then pointed to the chauffeur, who was down at the side of the car.