“Then you have heard?”
“Heard? Of course. If I hadn’t I could have read it in your faces. Look here, sir,” he cried, turning sharply on his nephew, “where were you last night?”
Harry clutched the table-cloth that hung into his lap.
“I? Last night?” he faltered. “Yes; didn’t I speak plainly? Where were you last night? Why weren’t you down at Van Heldre’s, behaving like a man, and fighting for your master along with your henchman?”
“Uncle, dear, don’t be so unreasonable,” said Louise, leaning back and looking up in the old man’s face—for he had thrown his basket and rod on a chair, and gone behind her to stand stroking her cheek—“Harry was at home with Mr Pradelle.”
“Pradelle, eh?” said the old man sharply. “Not up?”
“Mr Pradelle has gone,” said Louise.
“Gone, eh?” said Uncle Luke sharply.
“Yes,” said his brother. “Mr Pradelle behaved very nicely. He left this note for me.”
“Note, eh? Bank-note—”