“What’s that?” cried the constable. “Oh, nonsense! Come along.”
“I tell you it’s true,” cried Isaac, with drunken fierceness; “it’s true. I saw him go to her room. Let him deny it if he can.”
Denville stood up, holding tightly by Claire’s arm, and looking wildly from one to the other as a strange murmur rose amongst the fast-augmenting crowd. Then, as if it were vain to fight against the charge, he made a lurch forward, recovered himself, and sank into a chair, Richard Linnell catching sight of his ghastly countenance before he covered it with his hands.
“It is a false charge, constable,” cried Linnell hastily. “Take that man away.”
“It’s all true,” snarled Isaac, with drunken triumph. “Look at him. Let him say he didn’t do it if he dare!”
As every eye was fixed upon him, the Master of the Ceremonies did not move; he made no bold defiance, but seemed half paralysed by the bolt that had fallen—one from which his child had failed to screen him, though she had thrown herself upon his breast.