“Aaron,” he said, “who is your best friend?”
“Mrs. Myles, sir.”
“Do you wish to ruin her?”
“Na, na; not for th’ world!”
“Do you know that what has happened here to-night will ruin her unless you tell the whole truth and thus enable us to follow Budthorne’s captors and rescue him?”
“Na, na!”
“But it will. The story will travel far and wide. Every one will hear how a young American, a guest at this inn, was captured by ruffians and carried off. Travelers will shun the place. Mrs. Myles will find her business gone. With no income, she’ll soon come to want and suffering. Without money she’ll be unable to buy flour, and meat, and fuel. There will be no warm fire on her hearth in the bleak winter, and she’ll suffer from hunger. You will be responsible—you, the one she took in when you were in wretchedness, the one she has fed, and housed, and trusted.”
Aaron held up his hands.
“I canna be to blame for it!” he cried.
“You will be. You met Budthorne out there by understanding. You knew those men were hidden behind the little building. You knew they meant to carry him away. You were not injured or struck down. You even cut that tiny gash on your own head with a common knife. Here it is. I picked it up where in your excitement you dropped it in the snow.”