“Yes, I was there,” said Harry, slowly; “and I sinned. Well, I am ready. Take your revenge. I am in your hands. You have the evidence of my crime. Denounce me, and let me out of your sight for ever.”
“And my father’s old friend—my second father? And Louise, my more than sister? What of them?”
He quailed before her as she stood, her eyes flashing, a hectic flush on either cheek; and he felt that he had never known Madelaine Van Heldre till then.
“Oh!” he groaned as he covered his face with his hands, “I am guilty. Let me suffer,” he said slowly. “They will soon forget, for I shall be as one who is dead.”
“No,” she said; “I cannot speak. If he who is hovering between life and death could advise, he would say, ‘Be silent; let his conscience be his judge.’ I say the same. Go. The locket is not there.”
“The police?” he cried in a questioning tone.
“No,” she said; “the secret was mine. I found it tightly clasped in my poor father’s hand.”
“Then the secret is safe.”
“Safe?” she said scornfully. “Safe? Yes, it is my secret. You asked for mercy. I give it you, for the sake of all who are dear to me; and because, if he lives, my poor father would not prosecute the son of his old friend. There is your locket. Take it, and I pray Heaven we may never meet again. Crampton!”
“Yes, Miss Maddy, Crampton—old Crampton, who held you in his arms when you were one hour old.”