“And—and do they suspect any one?” whispered the young man in a voice he did not know for his own.
“No; the police have been away since, and they think they have a clue—two pedlars who have been about the place lately.”
“And Mr Van Heldre—is—is he badly hurt?”
“Very badly. It is doubtful whether he can recover.”
The young man’s breath came and went in a strange labouring way as he sat rigidly upon his seat, while his father went on telling him fact after fact that the son knew only too well.
“Poor Van Heldre! First the ship, then this terrible calamity. Crampton tells me that there was a sum of money deposited in the safe—five hundred pounds in notes, and all gone—every penny—all gone. Poor old Crampton! he almost worshipped Van Heldre. He is nearly wild with grief. One minute he scowled at me savagely; the next minute he was apologetic. It’s a terrible business, children. I thought you had better both come on, for, of course, I could not leave now.”
Just then Mrs Van Heldre came down, looking red-eyed and pale, to take Louise to her breast.
“Thank you, my dear, thank you,” she sobbed; “it was like you to come. And you too, Harry Vine.” She took and pressed the young man’s hand which was dank and cold. Then, in a quick access of gratitude, she laid her hands upon his shoulders, and kissed him.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said in a voice broken with sobs. “You seem always to have been like Maddy’s brother. I might have known that you would come.”
If ever man suffered agony, that man was Harry Vine as he listened to the poor simple-hearted woman’s thanks. His punishment had commenced, and every time the door opened he gave a guilty start, and turned white as ash.