At that moment, Daisy, who had remained crouching behind the brickwork of one of the furnaces, came forward trembling.
“Daisy Banks!” cried the vicar in astonishment. “You here?”
“Don’t speak to me; don’t speak to me,” she cried wildly, as she threw herself sobbing beside her father to passionately raise his head, and kiss him again and again. “He’s dead, he’s dead, and I’ve killed—I’ve killed him.”
There was silence for a few moments, which no one cared to break, and Tom Podmore stood with folded arms and heaving breast, gazing down at the weeping figure of her he so dearly loved.
“He’s not dead, my poor girl,” said the vicar, kindly; “only in a swoon. That bleeding will do him good. Constables, we must get him home at once, or—no, you must guard this place. Harry, Podmore, and two more—a stout piece of carpet from the nearest house. We can carry him in that.”
“Bring him home—to my place,” said Richard Glaire, who had somewhat recovered.
“I think not, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, firmly. “His own house will be best.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the chief policeman. “He’s the leader, I believe; we must have him at the station. The doctor can see him there. He had laid the train, and was to fire it. Harry and Podmore here know.”
Daisy uttered a shriek, and the vicar’s brow knit as he turned to Richard.
“It’s a lie,” cried the latter, sharply. “I was here, and know some scoundrels put the powder here, and the train; but Banks destroyed it, and saved my life.”