“And now, if you like, Grace,” continued Tom Girtley, “we will set to work to-morrow to make that scoundrel Blakeford disgorge; and before a fortnight is passed, if he doesn’t mind, he will be cooling his heels in prison, for I have undeniable proofs of his illegal practices. At the very least he will be struck off the Rolls. It is utter professional ruin.”
I did not speak, for the scene seemed to change to that wretched office once more, and I saw the black, forbidding, threatening face gazing down into mine. I heard the harsh, bitter voice reviling my poor dead father, and a shudder ran through me. The next moment, though, I was dwelling on the soft sweet face of Hetty, and as I recalled the child’s many gentle, loving acts, there was a strange choking sensation at my breast, and I walked into the little drawing-room to be alone.
“Antony, dear,” said a soft, sweet voice, “you seem quite overcome.”
“I shall be better directly,” I said. “But, dear Miss Carr, this must be stopped. You all meant so kindly by me, but if proceedings have begun they must not go on.”
“They have commenced, Antony, by my wishes,” she said in a low voice, as she took my hand. “Antony, my dear boy, you have always seemed to me like a younger brother whom it was my duty to protect, and I have felt quite a bitter hatred against this man for the wrongs he did you.”
“Not wrongs,” I said. “It was through him I came to know you and Hallett.”
“Yes, but he has wronged you cruelly.”
“Miss Carr,” I said—“let me call you sister.”
“Always,” she whispered, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder. “This would be ruin and disgrace to Mr Blakeford?”
“Which he richly deserves,” she said warmly.