“No—no—no! What I said is true—quite true,” sobbed Patty.
But the old man refused to hear her, and turned to speak to Janet; but she shrank from him, cowering in a corner with a childlike display of fear, and only glancing at him from time to time, as if horror-stricken.
“You see,” said Sir Francis, “she knows all, and dare not approach to tell it. That there is some fearful mystery here, I feel more and more convinced; but, doubtless, in God’s good time all will be brought to light.”
He rose as he spoke, and approached Janet, who shrank from him more and more, waving her hand to keep him off her, and each moment growing more frightened and hysterical.
“Come, my friends,” said Sir Francis, drawing back with a bitter sigh, as he saw the uselessness of pressing inquiry in Janet’s case, “let us go. Constable, you will sift this matter to the very bottom.”
The sergeant nodded shortly, and Sir Francis turned towards the door; but Patty flew to him, and caught one of his hands.
“Oh, sir!” she cried, “can you not believe me? Indeed, indeed, I have spoken the truth. Your son did come many times, I know; but I hate him,” she cried, naïvely. “I would not, though, nor would any one here, hurt a hair of his head. We could not help his coming; and if he were here on that Tuesday night, I did not see him when I came. I am sorry—indeed I am; and I pity you from the bottom of my heart, for we have our feelings even as you rich people have.”
“But not feeling enough to ease a poor old man’s heart,” said Sir Francis, coldly, as thrusting her back, he took another step towards the door.
“He does not believe me—he does not believe me!” sobbed Patty, clasping her hands together, and then, excitedly, she exclaimed—“Does no one believe what I say?”
“I do, Miss Pellet, from my soul,” exclaimed a deep voice, and, stepping forward, Harry Clayton caught her clasped hands in his, as the young girl joyfully met his gaze.