“It is too late, my child. See here.” He held out a scrap of reddish paper. “From the London police. I could not trust those bunglers here.”
Madelaine snatched the paper from his hand and read it.
“Oh!” she moaned, and the paper dropped from her hand.
Harry snatched it from the floor, read it, let it fall, and reeled against the table, whose edge he grasped.
Madelaine struggled and freed herself from the old man’s detaining arm.
“Harry!” she panted—“it would be my father’s wish—escape! There may yet be time.”
He leaned back against the table, gazing at her wildly, as if he did not grasp her words. Then he started as if stung by a sudden lash as old Crampton said: “I have done my duty. It is too late.”