“To find her,” said the artist, “wherever she is, and to bring her back—poor lost lamb! Oh, Harry, they have driven the poor girl mad!”
“I’m with you, Magnus,” said Artingale, “to the end. Come on; we have lost much valuable time, but I could not stir till I saw what her father intended to do.”
He hailed a cab.
“Scotland Yard!” he shouted, and the man drove on. “If it costs me all I’ve got I’ll have her back. I look upon her as a sister. Poor girl! poor girl! she must have been mad indeed.”
“Harry,” whispered Magnus, “what are you going to do?” and his voice sounded hoarse and strange.
“Put the best dogs to be had upon the trail to run them down.”
“And then?”
“Get the scoundrel transported for life. And you?”
“I’m going with you to-night, or this morning, or whatever it is; to-morrow I’m going to buy a pistol.”
“And blow out your brains?” cried Artingale. “Bah! what’s the use of that?”