Joe Banks passed his hand before his face, and seemed dazed for a moment; then, catching at the note, he took a candle from the drawers on which it stood, and, as he did so, Richard started forward, and made a snatch at the paper, but a menacing movement on the part of the crowd made him start back, while the vicar looked from face to face, and saw Tom Podmore’s stern scowl, and the fire gathered in Joe Banks’s eyes.
“He’ll murder him,” he said to himself; and, shifting his position, he got between Joe and Richard Glaire.
“Hold your tongue, for your life,” he whispered to the trembling man. “Your only chance is to beg for his mercy: for his child’s sake. Daisy must be your wife.”
“Curse you!” cried Richard, through his teeth. “You were always against me.”
Then he shrank back trembling against the wall, as in the midst of profound silence, the old man read the letter straight through.
“Who gi’e thee this, Sim Slee?” he said twice in a husky voice.
“Dicky Glaire.”
“No, no,” gasped Richard; “a lie—a lie. It’s a forgery. I did not get away Daisy Banks; so help me God, I didn’t, Joe.”
“Damn thee for a liar!” cried the old man, furiously; and before the vicar could prevent him, he had Richard by the throat, and down upon his knees, faintly protesting his innocence. “It’s no forgery. It’s thee own false writing same as these,” he cried; “your cursed love-letters to my poor bairn.”
He tore a bundle of notes from his breast, notes Richard had warned poor Daisy to burn, but which the weak girl had treasured up in secret, to be found in her room when she had gone.