“Oh!” he groaned as he covered his face with his hands, “I am guilty. Let me suffer,” he said slowly. “They will soon forget, for I shall be as one who is dead.”
“No,” she said; “I cannot speak. If he who is hovering between life and death could advise, he would say, ‘Be silent; let his conscience be his judge.’ I say the same. Go. The locket is not there.”
“The police?” he cried in a questioning tone.
“No,” she said, “the secret was mine. I found it tightly clasped in my poor father’s hand.”
“Then the secret is safe.”
“Safe?” she said scornfully. “Safe? Yes, it is my secret. You asked for mercy. I give it you, for the sake of all who are dear to me; and because, if he lives, my poor father would not prosecute the son of his old friend. There is your locket. Take it, and I pray heaven we may never meet again. Crampton!”
“Yes, Miss Maddy, Crampton—old Crampton, who held you in his arms when you were one hour old.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching my master’s interests—watching over you.”
“Then you have heard?”