“Do all you can to comfort them, Mrs Barclay, please,” said Morton, as he left the house. “It’s all so shocking, I don’t know what to say or do.”
“You’ve done quite right in coming here, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, whose eyes were red with weeping.
“I’m afraid I’ve done more harm than good,” said Morton dolefully. “Poor Claire, she’s half crazy with what she has to bear.”
“You told her, then, about your brother Fred?” said Mrs Barclay, in a whisper.
The lad nodded.
“It was quite right; she would have heard of it, and it was better it should come from you, my dear. Are you—are you going to see your poor father in prison?”
“Yes,” said Morton firmly. “I’ve got an order to see him, and I’m going at once.”
He turned round sharply, for he had received a hearty clap on the shoulder, and found that Barclay had approached him unperceived; and he now took the young fellow’s hand and shook it warmly.
“Good lad!” he exclaimed. “That’s brave. Go and see him; and if you like you may tell him that Mr Linnell and I have got the best lawyer in London to defend him.”
“You have, Mr Barclay?”