“It is a lie! You—May! The girl I’ve loved so well—you! When my cup of suffering is brimming over. A lie—a lie, I say. Ah!”
His manner changed again; and now it was soft and full of wild appeal, as he cried:
“May—May! My darling! God help me, poor broken dotard that I am! Shall I be in time?”
He made a dash for the door, but staggered, and would have fallen had not Barclay caught him and helped him to a chair, where he sat gazing before him as if at some scene passing before his eyes.
“Blood,” he whispered at last, “to the head. Help me, Barclay, or I shall be too late.”
“No, stay here. I’ll go and do all I can.”
“No!” cried Denville fiercely. “I am her father, Barclay; we may save her—if I go too.”
He rose with nervous energy now, and gripping the money-lender’s arm they went together out into the dark street, where, indignantly refusing further help, the old man strode off, leaving Barclay watching him.
“I don’t hardly know what to do,” he said musingly. “Ah! who are you?”
“His lordship’s man, sir,” said a livery servant. “Lord Carboro’ says could you make it convenient to come to him directly?”