“You do; and you saw who it was. Speak.”
“Morton!” gasped Claire, staggering to him, and throwing herself on his breast. “I cannot bear it. For God’s sake, stop!”
“No,” cried the lad; “for my father’s sake I’ll have the truth. You, Dick Miggles, I order you to speak.”
For the first time in his life, as Morton Denville stood there erect and stern, he looked a man.
“Can’t,” said Dick Miggles. “Don’t know.”
“You do, you coward!” cried Morton. “You will not speak for fear of getting into trouble. Look at the trouble we are in, and you might clear us.”
“Morton, dear Morton!” moaned Claire, with horror-stricken face.
“Silence, sister!” cried Morton, throwing her off. “He shall speak: if it was my own father who threw those things into the sea that night. But it was not. It was some man with a heavy tread; and he stopped and did what my father never did in his life. He was smoking as he stood above our heads, and he got a light and lit a fresh cigar.”
“Oh!”
It was a low, piteous wail, full of relief from Claire. It could not have been her father, then, and she leaned helpless on Barclay’s arm.