He stopped short, for his voice had turned husky, and gripping Denville’s hand very tightly, he held it for a few minutes.
“God bless her sweet face!” he whispered; “we never believed one of the miserable scandals about her, Denville. But now about yourself.”
Denville turned away his face, took a couple of steps to the side, and stood with his back to them for a few minutes. Then, turning, with his face wearing a curious look of calm, he laid his hand upon Barclay’s arm.
“You have taken away the bitterness of death, Barclay,” he said in a low voice. “Heaven help me for the weakest of men. I never knew who were my friends.”
“Then you will let us get counsel for you?”
“No, no! I forbid it,” said Denville sternly. “Good-bye, Mr Linnell. I thank you. Barclay, God bless you!”
His voice trembled as he pressed the money-lender’s hand, for the gaoler had opened the door, and was waiting to usher them out.
“Claire, my child,” he whispered, taking her in his arms, “you will come again. Good-bye now. Good-bye.”
She clung to him wildly for a few moments, and then, with a look of desolation in her eyes, slowly followed the gaoler and the other visitors along the echoing stone passages to the gate, where Linnell laid his hand upon her arm.
Before he could speak there was a rustle of a silk dress, a hurried panting as some one brushed by him, and a voluble voice exclaimed: