Mrs. Brander saw that there was hope. She moved nearer to him, clasping her hands, not in supplication, but because they would twitch and tremble, and so betray the anguish she was suffering. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. But with one piteous look out of her proud eyes, she turned away again.
“Well,” said Ned, in very ill-tempered tones, “we’re wasting our time here, Abel, and Mrs. Brander’s. So, please, madam, let us see your husband, and have done with him.”
But Mrs. Brander hastened to intercept him on his way to the door.
“You will not be too hard,” she pleaded, in a breaking voice. “You are not vindictive, I am sure.”
“I beg your pardon, madam, that’s just what I am,” snarled Ned. “And if I’m fool enough not to insist on the hanging he deserves, I’m not going to let him off scot free, I can tell you.”
“Of course not, of course not,” said she, in a tone of great relief. “He has done wrong—great wrong; and he must suffer for it—we must suffer for it. Only don’t expose him. Anything but that.”
“Yes, anything but what he deserves, of course. Let us pass, madam, please. He is in the library, I suppose?”
“I suppose so,” she faltered.
Ned turned round abruptly.
“You suppose so! Well, if he’s given us the slip, and left you to bear the brunt of it all, it’ll be the worse for him.”