“No, no,” said Claire faintly. “It is better not.”
“I say it is better out. You foolish girl, it is our last chance for him.”
“Morton,” whispered Claire; “suppose—”
“Better the truth than the doubt,” cried Morton. “You Dick Miggles—”
“Stop!” cried Richard Linnell. “Mr Denville, your sister’s wishes should be respected.”
Claire darted a grateful glance at him, and then her face contracted, and she turned from him with a weary sigh.
“Mr Linnell,” cried Morton, “I wish to spare my sister’s feelings; but it is my duty as my father’s son to prove him innocent if I can, and I’ll have the truth out of this man.”
“All right, Mr Mort’n,” said Dick. “Don’t be hard on a fellow. You and me used to be good mates over many a fishing trip, when you used to come down o’ nights out o’ the balc’ny.”
Morton turned a horrified look upon Fisherman Dick, as the idea flashed across his brain, that the man who knew so well how he came down, must have known the way up. It was but a passing fancy, for there was that in the rough fisherman’s countenance that seemed to disarm suspicion.
“Well, what’s the matter now, Master Mort’n?”