“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Garstang, making an effort as if to rouse himself. “Well, and if it is as you suspect, what then? Reckless as he is, Harry Dasent would make her as good a husband as Claud Wilton, and a better, for he is not related to her by blood.”
“You dare to tell me that!” thundered Wilton.
“Yes, of course,” said Garstang, coolly. “Why not?”
“Then you do know of it; you are at the bottom of it all; you have helped him to carry her off.”
“I swear I have not,” said Garstang, quietly. “I would not have done such a thing, for the poor girl’s sake. It may be possible, just as likely as for your boy here, to try and win the girl and her fortune, but I swear solemnly that I have not helped him in any way.”
“Then you tell me as a man—as a gentleman, that you did not know he had got her away?”
“I tell you as a man, as a gentleman, that I did not know he had got her away. What is more, I tell you I do not believe it. Tell me more. How and when did she leave? When did you miss her?”
“Night before last—no, no, I mean the next morning after you had left. She had gone in the night.”
Garstang’s hand shot out, and he caught Wilton by the shoulder with a fierce grip, while his lip quivered and his face twitched, as he gazed at him with a face full of horror.
“James Wilton,” he said, in a husky voice, “you jump at this conclusion, but did anyone see them go?”