“Hah!” he ejaculated, and thrusting in his hands he climbed into the room.
Louise gazed wildly at the rough-looking figure in sea-stained old pea-jacket and damaged cap, hair unkempt, and a hollow look in eye and cheek that, joined with the ghastly colourless skin, was quite enough to foster the idea that this was one risen from the grave.
“Don’t be scared,” he said harshly, “I’m not dead after all.”
“Harry! my darling brother.”
That was all in words, but with a low, moaning cry Louise had thrown her soft arms about his neck and covered his damp cold face with her kisses, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Then there is some one left to—My darling sis!” He began in a half-cynical way, but the genuine embrace was contagious, and clasping her to his breast, he had to fight hard to keep back his own tears and sobs as he returned her kisses.
Then the fugitive’s dread of the law and of discovery reasserted itself, and pushing her back, he said quickly—
“Where is father?”
“At Mr Van Heldre’s. Let me—”
“Hush! answer my questions. Where is Aunt Marguerite?”