Cold, cold with death, came up the tide
In no manner of haste,
Up to her knees, and up to her side,
And up to her wicked waist;
For the hand of the dead, and the heart of the dead,
Are strong hasps they to hold.—G. MACDONALD
“Rector,” said Herbert Bowater, “are you specially at home?”
“Why?” asked Julius, pausing.
“There’s that man Gadley.”
“Gadley! Is he down?”
“It seems that he has been ill this fortnight, but in the low, smouldering form; and he and that hostler of his kept it a secret, for fear of loss of gain, and hatred of doctors, parsons, Sisters, and authorities generally, until yesterday, when the hostler made off with all the money and the silver spoons. This morning early, a policeman, seeing the door open, went in, and found the poor wretch in a most frightful state, but quite sensible. I was passing as he came out to look for help, and I have been there mostly ever since. He is dying—M’Vie says there’s not a doubt of that, and he has got something on his mind. He says he has been living on Moy’s hush-money all this time, for not bringing to light some embezzlement of your mother’s money, and letting the blame light on that poor cousin of yours, Douglas.”
Herbert was amazed at the lighting up of his Rector’s worn, anxious face.
“Douglas! Thank Heaven! Herbert, we must get a magistrate at once to take the deposition!”
“What! Do you want to prosecute Moy?”
“No, but to clear Archie.”