“Where is he now?” she said, eagerly.
“At Norwood, I expect,” said Harry. “But, may I ask, who are you?”
“Me!—me!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I am the woman who has been his slave through life—the woman he drove mad, and then kept hidden away that he might marry money. I’m mad, I know, but only sometimes—only sometimes. And now—and now, he has robbed me of my child—his child!—no, no! my child—my own darling; and they try to cheat me; they say it is dead. But no, it could not die; it is well and happy, and,” she continued, in an undertone, “I have half maddened him. I was here this morning and told him I would have my little one. I would not leave him, but he contrived to evade me.” Then, catching Harry’s wrist, she whispered a few words in his ear which made him turn pale with horror.
“Nonsense! No, no! not so bad as that,” he said, hoarsely.
“Yes, yes, I fear it is. Take me with you now—at once.”
Harry stood for a moment thinking, and half confused, at times, too, doubting the wisdom of taking such a companion; then, evidently having formed his plans, he said hurriedly, “Come then!” and in a few minutes they had secured a cab, and were rattling over London Bridge.
A train due in five minutes, but it seemed to them five hours before it came. Off at last, though; and very soon after leaving the station their footsteps were crunching over the gravel sweep that led to the front door of Richard Pellet’s place, when, as soon almost as they reached the porch, the door flew open, and a burst of warm light greeted them, their approach having been heralded by a bell from the lodge.
“Mr Pellet in?” said Harry to one of the gentlemen in drab and coach-lace.
“Not been gone out ten minutes, sir.”
“Do you know where to?” said Harry.