The door closed upon her, and Harry Vine sat alone in the dining-room with his hands clasped before him, gazing straight away into his future, and trying to see the road.
“If I had but thrown myself upon his mercy,” he groaned; but he knew that it was impossible all through his regret.
What to do now? Where to go? Money? Yes; he had a little, thanks to his regular work as Van Heldre’s clerk—his money that he had received, and he was about to use it to escape—where?
“God help me!” groaned the unhappy man at last; “what shall I do?”
He started up in horror for the door handle turned. Had they found out so soon? Was he to be arrested now?
“Harry—Harry!”
A quick husky whisper, but he could not speak.
“Harry, why don’t you answer? What are you staring at?”
“What do you want?”
“Look here, old fellow; I’ve been waiting for you to come up—all these hours. What have you found out? Van Heldre was robbed to-night of five hundred pounds in notes, and you have that money.”