Leslie took the old man’s arm, and could feel that he was trembling, as they hurried on down towards the harbour, which they would have to cross by the ferry before they could reach the little crowd gathering round the first two men on the patch of sand.
“Keep a good heart, sir,” said Leslie, gently. “It may not be after all.”
“Yes, it is—it is,” groaned Uncle Luke. “I’ve hung on so to the belief that being a clever swimmer he had managed to get away; but I might have known better, Leslie, I might have known better.”
“Let’s wait first and be sure, sir.”
“There is no need. I don’t think I cared for the boy, Leslie; there were times when he made me mad with him for his puppyism; but he was my brother’s son, and I always hoped that after a few years he would change and become another man.”
“Well, sir, let’s cling to that hope yet.”
“No, no,” said the old man gloomily. “There is the end. He was no thief, Leslie. Believe that of him. It was his wretched scoundrel of a friend, and if Harry struck down poor Van Heldre, it was in his horror of being taken. He was no thief.”
As they reached the lowest turn of the cliff path, the old man gripped Leslie’s arm with spasmodic violence and stopped short, for the far side of the harbour lay before them, and they could see clearly all that was going on amid the rocks behind.
“We should be too late,” he said huskily. “Your eyes are younger than mine. That’s the police sergeant yonder in that boat, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”