"Nonsense. This isn't the Dark Age. He is powerless to hurt Harold."
"I'm afraid he can, Wilfred! On the night of Mr. Malet's murder Harold was out of doors. Mr. van Zwieten has more than hinted to me that he can and will accuse him of it!"
An angry fire glittered in Wilfred's eye. "I'll soon put a stop to that," he said between his teeth. "If I can prove Van Zwieten is a spy, he will have enough to do to look after himself without troubling about other people."
"I'm sure of that. And, Wilfred--see if you can find my father; and tell him to come and see me. I am so anxious about him."
"Oh, he's all right." Wilfred really could not bring himself to be sorry for Mr. Scarse, tainted as he was with the heresy of Little England.
"I'll call at his rooms, Brenda, and leave a message if you like. But I can't see him; I might be tempted to tell him my mind. Good-bye."
He jumped into the cab so as to give Brenda no opportunity for further argument. It was natural that she should be anxious about her father. But for her, indeed, he would have rejoiced had the mob succeeded in ducking Mr. Scarse. Bad as was Van Zwieten, Mr. Scarse was, to his thinking, worse, for he was betraying his own country with his rotten politics. It was strange and inconceivable to Wilfred that a man born an Englishman should bring himself to abuse and condemn the very land he should have been proud of.
Strangely enough, he met the object of his thoughts as his cab turned into Star Street. The old man, looking ill and unhappy, was stealing homeward, his eyes fixed on the ground before him. Wilfred was pleased to see that the failure of the meeting had gone home to him. He only hoped he would keep the memory of it by him for future guidance. The cab pulled up with a jerk, and he leaned out.
"Mr. Scarse, can I speak with you?"
Scarse looked up irritably, and recognizing Wilfred, came to the edge of the pavement. He knew the young man's passion for politics, and looked but sourly upon him.