“I know he is dangerously wounded, and that he is your son.”
“My God!” muttered Denville, with his lip quivering—“a judgment—a judgment upon him for his crime.”
“And that in his misery and pain he raised his voice bravely to try and save you, father, by charging himself with the murder of Lady Teigne.”
“What?” cried the old man excitedly. “Fred—my son—charged himself with this crime?”
“Yes; he boldly avowed himself as the murderer.”
“Where—where is he?” cried Denville excitedly.
“In the infirmary; weak with his wound. Father, you will forgive the past, and try to be friends with him when—when you meet again.”
The Master of the Ceremonies looked up sadly in his son’s face and bowed his head slowly.
“Yes,” he said sadly; “I will try—when we meet again. But tell me, my boy,” he cried agitatedly; “they do not believe what he says—this—this charge against himself?”
“No; they look upon it as what it is—a brave piece of self-denial to save his father from this terrible position. Oh, father! you did not think he could be so staunch and true.”