Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.
Under Barclay’s Shell.
Denville grew composed at once, and taking Claire’s hand, stood up facing his visitors with a slight trace of the old manner returning, as he bowed and pointed to the stool and bed.
“Poor accommodation for visitors, gentlemen,” he said; “but it is the best I have to offer. Mr Barclay, Mr Linnell, will you be seated?”
“Couldn’t get to you before, Denville,” said the money-lender, shaking hands warmly. “Terrible business this. Miss Claire, my dear, the wife has gone to your house again. Taken some things with her; said she should stay.”
“Mr Denville, I am truly grieved,” said Linnell, offering his hand, after giving Claire a grave, sad look. “Mr Barclay and I have come to see of what service we can be to you.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Denville,” cried Barclay briskly. “Bad business, this, but—eh, Mr Linnell?”
“Miss Denville,” said the latter, turning to Claire, “as we are about to discuss business matters about counsel and your father’s defence, would you like to leave us?”
“No,” said Denville quickly, as he drew Claire’s hand through his arm, and shook his head. “You will pardon me, gentlemen, but in the little space of time I am allowed to see visitors, I should like to keep my child by my side. Gentlemen—Mr Barclay—Mr Linnell—half an hour ago I said that I had no friends. I was wrong—I thank you for coming. God bless you!”