"Let me see Mr. Felton," said Jim, catching the woman by her dress, and speaking with the utmost eagerness and passion, "let me see him. I came to see Mr. Dallas about this business, let me see Mr. Felton."
"You came! why what have you got to do with it?" said the woman; her curiosity vehemently aroused.
"I will tell you all about it," said Jim, adroitly; "you shall hear it all afterwards--a cur'ous story as any one ever had to tell. Mr. Dallas never did it--not he, I know better than that. I can tell Mr. Felton a great deal."
"I must ask if he will see you," said the woman; "if he won't, perhaps the lawyer--"
"No, no, it must be Mr. Felton himself. Let me into the room."
She offered no resistance, and in another minute Jim was in the presence of a group composed of Mr. Felton, a grave gentleman, who looked like a lawyer, a beautiful girl, who was Clare Carruthers, and a plain, clever-looking young woman, who was Clare's cousin, Mrs. Stanhope. The lawyer and Mrs. Stanhope were seated by a table in close conversation, which they carried on in lower tones. Clare Carruthers and Mr. Felton stood upon the hearth-rug, the girl's golden head was resting on her companion's shoulder, and she was crying silently but unrestrained.
"Is he very, very ill?" she had said, a little before Jim entered the room.
"Not seriously so, my dear, and indeed nothing could be more fortunate than that his strength failed him so completely. It gives us time, and I need it, I am so bewildered even yet."
"Did Mr. Lowther say--say that he was not--not brought before the magistrates, not brought into that dreadful place, to-day?" said Clare, her voice hardly audible for her sobs.
"Yes, my dear. Think a little, I could not be here if he had not so much respite. Clare, I am a chief witness; I must be there, you know, to tell them about--about my son--" He paused, and closed his eyes for a few minutes.