‘Hold your tongue, Ida!’ he said resolutely. ‘If you won’t speak, let Rose.’
‘She did,’ said Rose, in a low, anxious, terrified
voice. ‘I only heard it since I came home. She was married at the registrar’s office to that man Jones, whom they call the Rattler, and went off with him. It must have been her whom I saw, really and truly; and, oh, Herbert, could she have been so wicked as to steal Master Michael!’
‘Somebody else has been wicked then,’ said Herbert, laying hold of his sister’s arm.
‘I don’t know what all this means,’ exclaimed Ida, in great agitation; ‘nor what you and Rose are at! Making up such horrible, abominable insinuations against me, your poor sister! But Rose Rollstone always hated me!’
‘She does not know what she is saying,’ sighed Rose; and, with much delicacy, she moved away.
‘Let me go, Herbert!’ cried Ida, as she felt his grip on her hand.
‘Not I, Ida—till you have answered me! Is this so—that Michael is not drowned, but carried off by that woman?’ demanded Herbert, holding her fast and looking at her with manly gravity, not devoid of horror.
‘He is a horrid little impostor, palmed off to keep you out of the title and everything! That’s why I did it!’ sobbed Ida, trying to wrench herself away.
‘Oh, you did it, did you? You confess that! And what have you done with him?’