“Mr Hopper,” cried Tom passionately, “this is your doing, to bring me in here. Come away. It is too cruel to her.”
“Hey? cruel?—I don’t care,” said Hopper sturdily. “I’ll see it out; for look here, Tom, and you too, Mrs Richard,—I say, as I’ve said before, she’ll come out of it clear as day. Now, come up.”
He stumped hastily upstairs, Tom feeling compelled to follow, but hating himself for the part he was playing, the result of hanging about the house time after time, for the sake of catching a glimpse of Jessie, and then telling Hopper that evening what he had seen.
The old man had been astounded when, half-frantic, Tom had met him on his way to Richard Shingle’s; and then insisted upon his coming to have the matter cleared up, vowing that there was a mistake.
As the party reached the large landing, Jessie stood in front of the door of her room, the policeman being the last to complete the half-circle that surrounded her; and then Dick spoke.
“Jessie, my darling,” he said, tenderly, “I know this will upset you; but, my girl, when cruel conspiracies are hatched against us by scoundrels, we must meet them boldly.”
“Yes, father,” said Jessie, who did not shrink, but darted a reproachful look at Tom that went to his heart.
“Your uncle, to stab your fair fame, my dear, has brought these men to swear that they saw you let in some one to-night by the breakfast-room window; and they say he has not gone out. Speak out, my dear, and tell them it’s a lie.”
There was no reply, and Mrs Shingle caught at her husband’s arm; but he flushed up with passion and shook her off.
“Jessie,” he cried in a choking voice, “speak out quick!—is any one in that room of yours?”