“Yes,” said Harry huskily. “Of course, I’ll come on. Will you—you go first?”
“Harry, what are you thinking, dear? Why do you look so shocked? Indeed I am not deceiving you.”
“Deceiving me?”
“No, dear: I am sure it is not papa who is hurt. There, come along, and see—for Madelaine’s sake.”
She said these last words very softly, almost in a whisper; but the only effect they had upon him was to make him shudder.
What should he do—face the danger or go? He must face it; he knew he must. It was his only hope, and already his sister was hurrying him to the door—his sister, perhaps unconsciously to hand him over to the police.
“No,” he said to himself, with an attempt to be firm, “he could not have seen me; but was it after all Pradelle I struck down?”
A chill shot through him.
The locket torn from his watch-chain?
“Why, Harry dear, you seem quite upset.”