“Shame upon you!” cried the old man fiercely. “Defending such a scoundrel as that!”
“No, no, uncle, I do not defend this man. Listen to me; you do not know what you are doing.”
“Not know what I am doing? Ah!”
He turned from her in disgust, and with a look of agony that thrilled him, she caught Leslie’s arm.
“You will listen to me, Mr Leslie. You must not, you shall not, call in the police.”
He did not speak for the moment, but stood hesitating as if yielding to her prayer; but the frown deepened upon his brow as he loosened her grasp upon his arm.
“It is for your good,” he said coldly, “to save you from a man like that.”
“I must speak, I must speak!” cried Louise, and then she uttered a wail of horror and shrank to her uncle’s side.
For as she clung to Leslie, Pradelle, with a bullying look, planted himself before the door to arrest Leslie’s progress, and then shrank back as he saw the grim smile of satisfaction upon the young Scot’s face.
It was the work of moments, and the action seemed like to that of one of his own country deerhounds, as Leslie clashed at him; there was the dull sound of a heavy blow, and Pradelle went down with a crash in one corner of the room.