“His good name cleared.”
“He took the guilt willingly,” I cried. “He must bear it now. He cannot escape from it.”
“He can,” my father answered. “He can tell the truth.”
“No one would believe him. It would be his word against yours. What chance would he have?”
My father turned a stern, dark face upon me.
“So you think that I would swear to a lie, Philip? No! There was always this risk. I have felt that if ever he should demand to be set right with the world, it must be done.”
“It shall be done.”
We started, for the words came from the other side of the room. Standing in the deep shadows just inside the door was a tall, gaunt man, with long dishevelled beard and pale, ghastly face. His clothes were ragged and weather-stained and his boots were thick with mud. I looked towards him fascinated. It was the face of the lunatic who had twice attempted Mr. Marx’s life. It was Hart, alias Francis, the man who held in his hands a life dearer to me than my own.
“Is it really you, Francis?” my father asked, in a shocked tone. “You are altered. You have been ill. Sit down.”
He took no notice. Whilst my father had been speaking his eyes had been wandering restlessly round the room.