“The police! Then it is known by every one in the place?”
Crampton looked pityingly down at the anguished countenance before him.
“And Henry Vine? He refuted your charge? Speak, man, or you will drive me mad.”
“Henry Vine did not deny the charge, sir. He was manly enough for that.”
“Crampton, is this all true?”
“It was my duty, sir.”
“He does not deny it? Oh! it seems monstrous. But you said the police; you gave information. Crampton—his father—his sister—my poor child!”
“Is saved from a villain, Mr Van Heldre?” cried the old clerk fiercely. “Better she should have died than have married such a man as he.”
“And I—I lying here helpless as a child,” said the sick man feebly. “But this must all be stopped. Crampton, you should not have done all this. Now go at once, fetch George Vine here, and—Henry—the young man. Where is he?”
“Gone, sir, to answer for his crime,” said the old man solemnly. “Henry Vine is dead.”