“Whimple,” he said gently, “you need fear no more violence. If I meditated you such, I could not be guilty of the inhumanity in your present state.”
Something in his tone or his expression reassured the poor terrified creature. Gradually he loosened his hold of the bedhead, and, turning, sat up on his pillow.
“What do you want?” he whispered.
“I want to know one thing. I want to have a direct answer to a simple question. Are you conspiring against me?”
“Before God, no.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then said Mr. Tuke:
“Representations have been made to me. I own I acted with unconsidered haste. If I have wronged you, I am sorry. Swear to me that your part in the business of that stone was an unwitting one—that you are blameless, and I will believe you and ask your pardon.”
Suddenly the eyes of the weak fellow on the bed filled with tears.
“Sir! sir!” he cried in a full voice. “Oh! if you will only be good to me!—you will—I can see it—I can——”
The other saw him about to fling himself out of bed, and forestalled the act by stepping hastily up to him. Whimple seized his hand in a fervid clasp and looked up in his face.