On learning from the questions of the constables how important a factor her own evidence against Goodhare would be, poor Deborah could not suppress a little cry of horror. Strong as were her mistrust and dislike of the ex-librarian, the thought that it might be her words which would convict him was so terrible that, as he passed her on his way out, she gave him a look as if to implore his forgiveness.
Amos Goodhare, who, now that he was caught, was very quiet and subdued, stopped short with a low cry of pain as soon as the constables who had him in charge attempted to lead him forward.
“I am hurt,” he said, in a low voice. “One of you infernal ruffians must have done it when you caught me, two men against one. Let the doctor see my ankle, my right ankle—I think I have sprained it.”
With the constables’ help he limped back to the bottom stair and sat down. While the men stood back to allow the doctor to examine the limb he declared to be injured, and Deborah reluctantly held the lamp, Amos looked up malevolently into her face.
“Don’t apologise, Miss Audaer, for any injury your evidence might do me?” he said in a rapid whisper. “By giving you back your lover, Rees Pennant, now that I have done with him, I show you that I bear no malice.”
“Thank you,” said she quietly. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“I hope you may find a young scoundrel more to your taste than an old one.”
Deborah made no answer. The doctor having declared that there was no sign of a broken or displaced bone, and that the pain Amos spoke of must be the result of a slight sprain, he was helped on to his feet again, and led out of the house by his captors, followed by Charles Cenarth, who was to accompany them to the police station.
Deborah then asked the doctor if it would be safe to take Rees as far as Carstow that night. He answered with a decided negative. As she stood wondering what she should do with him, a hand was laid on her arm, and turning, she saw Lady Marion Cenarth, lean, haggard, despairing. She had crept into the house after her uncle, and remained in a distant corner, unseen in the darkness, unheard amid the general excitement.
“Bring him to my aunt’s,” she whispered imploringly. “Not Mrs. Charles Cenarth, but an aunt of my mother’s. She would take charge of him, I know. And if I could be of any use in nursing him—” she added piteously, imploringly. “Do let me. Oh! do let me,” she continued in a heart-broken tone. “Let him love you, and marry you—I don’t care. Only don’t take him quite away—until he is well.”