“Man, you will drive me mad,” cried Leslie. “Do you not—no, you have not understood yet. Louise—Miss Vine!”
George Vine staggered as if he had been struck, and his brother caught his arm as he stood there gasping, with his hand to his throat.
“What do you mean?” cried Uncle Luke sternly.
“I am sick and faint,” said Leslie, pressing his hands to his brow, as if unable to think clearly. “I remember now. I came in to ask about Mr Van Heldre, and a stranger was with Miss Vine. I tried to stop him—till you returned. We struggled, and he threw me. I recollect no more.”
“You’re mad!” said Uncle Luke savagely. “Where is Louise?”
His brother caught hold of the back of a chair to support himself, and his lips moved, but no sound came.
“Yes, I can recollect it all clearly now,” panted Leslie. “You must know!”
And he told them all.
They heard him in silence, devouring his words, and from time to time exchanging a hurried glance of inquiry.
“Bah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke, as the young man finished. Then, changing his manner, “Yes, of course. There, lie back, my lad, and tell us again after you’ve had a rest.”