“Does—does he—my father—know this?” she panted.
He smiled cunningly.
“No,” he said. “No; I knew better than to tell him. I leave it to you to decide whether he goes out of the Grange to die of a broken heart. He doesn’t know it.”
“Thank God!” she cried. “Oh, father, father!” and she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
He stole up to her and ventured—actually dared—to lay his hot hand upon her white arm.
“Hush! hush!” he stammered, “I can hear him coming. Don’t—don’t cry. You can’t help yourself. I’ll—I’ll leave you to think of it. Remember, it’s life or death for him, just that—life or death,” and with a thirsty, wistful look, as if he would have liked to catch her up in his arms, he stole from the room.
As he paused outside the door to gain his breath, a smile of triumph shone on his face, wet with perspiration; then suddenly it changed, and his features were momentarily distorted by an expression of abject fear.
Then he seemed to shake off the emotion, and with a husky laugh, he muttered:
“I’ve got her, and by Heaven, I’ll do it! She’s worth it!”