“No, no, my dear; she wouldn’t have gone away with a man like that,” sobbed Mrs Wilton. “She didn’t like him.”
“No; absurd,” cried Wilton.
“But he’d have gone away with her, guv’nor.”
“You were seen with her last night.”
“Oh, was I? All right, then. If you say so I suppose I was, guv’nor, but I’m going back to London after ferreting out all I can. You’re on the wrong scent, dad,—him! I never thought of that.”
“You’re wrong, Claud; you’re wrong.”
“Yes, mother, deucedly wrong,” cried the young man fiercely. “Why didn’t I think of it? I might have done the same, and now it’s too late. Perhaps not. She’d hold out after he got her away, and we might get to her in time. No, I know Harry Dasent. It’s too late now.”
“Look here, Claud, boy, I want to believe in you,” said Wilton, who was once more impressed by his son’s earnestness; “do you tell me you believe that Harry Dasent has taken her away by force?”
“Force, or some trick. It was just the sort of time when she might listen to him. There; you may believe me, now.”
“Then who was the lady you were seen with last night? Come, be honest. You were seen with someone. Who was it?”