Taking up the Clue.
As the rough, brutal fellow uttered those, words, accompanying them with a low cunning grin of satisfaction at his success, the walls of the room seemed to swim round before Harry Clayton’s eyes; but recovering himself, he ran to the side of Sir Francis, just as he was staggering and would have fallen.
“It’s nothing, my dear boy—nothing at all,” he gasped; “only a slight touch of faintness. Ring—a glass of wine—a little water—thanks! I am a little overdone with anxiety—a trifle unnerved. Sergeant, you will see to this directly, we will go with you.”
“Better not, sir—better not,” said the officer, bluntly; “leave it in my hands.”
“Sergeant Falkner,” said the old man, piteously, “you are not a father, or you would not speak like that.”
“Ain’t I, by Jove, sir!” cried the sergeant, heartily; “I’ve got ten already, and goodness knows how many more to come. I’ve had butcher-and-baker on-the-brain any time this ten years, sir; let alone boots. But I beg your pardon, Sir Francis; I won’t say another word. Here, you, Screwby, go and sit in that chair,” and he pointed to the one farthest from the door. Then, walking across with the man, he to a certain extent seemed to seat him in the chair, the great hulking rascal being like so much plastic clay in his hands.
The next moment Sergeant Falkner was at the low window, which he threw open, and stepped out upon the balcony, but in an instant he came back—very hastily back—into the room, and hurried to the door, which he opened, to take the key from the outside and carefully lock it from within—the key being afterwards placed in his pocket.
A few seconds more, and, to the surprise of Sir Francis and Clayton, he was again in the balcony, where he uttered a low cough.
There was a pause of a few moments, when he stooped over, and leaning down, spoke to some one beneath.
Apparently satisfied, he re-entered the room, closed the window, unlocked the door, and began to walk up and down thoughtfully, tapping his teeth the while with the end of his pencil.