Kitson, his hands clasped behind his back under his tail coat, his gold-rimmed pince-nez perched on his nose, looked down at the young man.
"I am not going to tell you that I was against the idea from the beginning, because that is unnecessary. I ought to have put my foot down and stopped it. I heard you were pretty clever with a gun, Stanford. Why didn't you sail in and rescue the girl as soon as you found where she was?"
"I don't think there would have been a ghost of a chance," said the other, looking up. "I am not finding excuses, but I am telling you what I know. There were four or five men in the house and they were all pretty tough citizens—I doubt if I would have made it that way."
"You think he would have married her?"
"He admitted as much," said Stanford Beale, "the parson was already there when I butted in."
"What steps are you taking to deal with this man van Heerden?"
Beale laughed helplessly.
"I cannot take any until Miss Cresswell recovers."
"Mrs. Beale," murmured Kitson, and the other went red.