The vicar had him by the hand in a moment, and pressed it hard.
“It’s a lie, parson,” he said in a whisper; “but I must tell it. He did save my life.”
“How came he by that cut, then, sir?” said the policeman.
“You see,” said Richard, coldly, “he fell and struck himself against that piece of clinker. He did not know I was there, and that his child had come to warn him, and he was overcome.”
“I will be answerable for his appearance to reply to any charge,” said the vicar.
“There’s no charge against him,” said Richard, hastily. “I saw him destroy the train.”
Daisy crept to his side, and Tom Podmore groaned as he saw her kiss Richard’s hand.
“Very good, sir,” said the constable; “that will do. We’ll watch here, sir, though there’s no fear now; and the others are locked up.”
A piece of carpet was then fetched, and Banks was carefully lifted upon it, four men taking the corners, and bearing him hammock-fashion down the crowded street, the work people who had been in the street having been augmented by the rest; and a strange silence brooded over the place as they talked in whispers, the story growing every instant until it was the common report that Banks and Richard Glaire had met in the foundry, that Banks had been killed, and Richard Glaire was now dying at home.
The gossiping people could not fit Daisy Banks into the story. She was walking beside her stricken father, and they saw her bent head, and heard her bitter sobs; but it was only natural that she should make her appearance at such a time, and it seemed nothing to them that she should be close to Tom Podmore, who was one of the bearers, though he, poor fellow, winced, as Daisy half-clung to his arm for protection, when the crowd pressed upon them more than once.