“It is very terrible,” said her father; “but I hope we shall soon hear that the villains are caught.”
Harry sat holding the handle of his tea-cup firmly, and gazing straight before him.
“You’ll go up to the office, of course, my boy?” said Vine.
“Eh? Go up to the office?” cried Harry, starting.
“Yes, as if nothing had happened. Do all you can to assist Crampton.”
“Yes, father.”
“He was very quiet and reserved when I went in at seven; quite snappish, I might say. But he was too much occupied and troubled, I suppose, to be very courteous to such an old idler as I am. Ah!” he continued, as a figure passed the window, “here’s Uncle Luke.”
A cold chill had run through Harry at the mention of Crampton—a chill of horror lest he should suspect anything; and now, at the announcement of his uncle’s approach, he felt a flush run up to his temples, and as if the room had suddenly become hot.
“Morning,” said Uncle Luke, entering without ceremony, a rush basket in one hand, his strapped-together rod in the other.
“Breakfast? Late for breakfast, isn’t it?”