“Yes, yes, yes,” sobbed Daisy; “so that—her son—”
“To get you away from Richard Glaire?”
“Yes, sir; yes. I wish—I wish I’d never seen him.”
“How came you at the foundry to-night?” he said sharply.
“I went to tell him of the danger, sir. I went to the House first, and they told me he was there. I hate him, I hate him,” she cried, passionately, heedless of the apparent incongruity of her words, “and everybody thinks me wicked and bad.”
“Is this true, Daisy Banks?” exclaimed the vicar.
“She couldn’t tell a lie, sir,” cried a hoarse voice. “Daisy, my poor bairn, I don’t think it no more.”
“Tom!” sobbed Daisy, with an hysterical cry; and the next moment she was sobbing on his breast, while the vicar softly withdrew, to turn, however, when he was fifty yards away, and see that the cottage door opened, and that two figures entered together before it was closed.
“Thank God!” he said softly—“thank God!”
Lights were burning at the House as he reached the door, and, under the circumstances, he knocked and was admitted by the white-faced, trembling servant, who had been sitting with one of the policemen in the hall, the other guarding the works.