“That scoundrel who gave you the ugly cut on the head is down here.”
“Down here!” cried Magnus, with his pale face flushing.
“Yes; and he has seen and insulted Julia Mallow.”
A deadly pallor came over the countenance of the artist once more, as he rose from his chair, and caught his friend by the shoulder.
“Harry,” he said hoarsely, “you found out my secret when I thought it was hidden deeply away. You are right; your news does give me strength, and I shall live to kill that man.”
“Well, old fellow, I would rather, for everybody’s sake, that you were not hung; but I don’t wonder at what you say, for I feel just now as if I could shove the beggar over the cliff. But set aside talking, we must act. What is to be done?”
“Let us see Mr Mallow at once.”
“Bah! He would hem and haw, and look rigid, and say we had better leave the matter to the police.”
“Very well, then, in Heaven’s name let us speak to the police.”
“What about, my dear fellow? What are we to say? Don’t you see that we are helpless. The man has kept outside the pale of the law; and besides, suppose we have him caught—if we can—think of the unpleasant exposé, and how painful it would be to both of those poor girls. No, we can’t do that. It would be horrible, my dear fellow. Suppose the scoundrel is trapped, and—I only say suppose—gets some sharp, unscrupulous lawyer to defend him. It would be painful in the extreme.”