His heart sank as he walked out on the veranda and saw the rugged face of little Amy’s father. The child must be dead, and he was telling Clingwood the sad news. He pressed up to the two.
“An’ so he says there ain’t any more fear of her dyin’,” the man was concluding. “She’ll be all right as soon as thet arm o’ hers gits well.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Clingwood, his eyes brightening. “I can’t tell you how glad I am.”
Niles had heard enough. The child was not likely to die, and he hurried over to Dick Merriwell.
“Say, Dick,” he began hesitatingly, “Stove is pretty near crazy up there with the idea that he has killed the little girl. Now, Hanlon says she’s going to get well after all. Don’t you think you ought to tell Brose? He’s given up thinking about himself and says he don’t care what they do to him; but he’s just about wild with remorse. I hate to think of a fellow suffering the way he is.”
The Yale man hesitated for an instant, and then his face cleared.
“Why, yes, I’ll tell him,” he said readily. “If he were only thinking of the consequences to himself, it would serve him right to be kept guessing; but, as it is, that would only be needless cruelty.”
He turned quickly and disappeared into the house.
Upstairs, Brose Stovebridge was pacing up and down the room in a frenzied manner. His eyes were wild and his brown hands trembled as he lifted them now and then in an aimless fashion to his ghastly, set face.
“A murderer!” he muttered, in a strained voice. “Twice a murderer! I never thought of it in that light the other time.”