“Robert Hallam, sir.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Bayle, drawing a breath full of relief. “You have not told a soul?”
“No, sir. I said to myself there’s that sweet lady and her little child; and that stopped me. I said to myself, I must go to the trustiest friend they have, sir, and that was you. Now, sir, I have told you all. The simple truth. What am I to do?”
Christie Bayle dropped into a chair, his eyes staring, his blanched face drawn, and his lips apart, as he conjured up the scene that must take place—the arrest, the wreck of Mrs Hallam’s life, the suffering that would be her lot. And at last, half maddened, he started up, and stood with clenched hands gazing fiercely at the man who had fired this train.
“Well, sir,” said Thickens coldly, “will you get them and the old people away before the exposure comes?”
“No,” cried Bayle fiercely, “this must not—shall not be. It must be some mistake. Mr Hallam could not do such a wrong. Man, man, do you not see that such a charge would break his wife’s heart?”
“It was in the hope that you would do something for them, sir, that I told you all this first.”
“But we must see Mr Dixon and Sir Gordon at once.”
“And they will—you know what.”
“Hah! the matter must be hushed up. It would kill her!” cried Bayle incoherently. “Mr Thickens, you stand there like this man’s judge; have you not made one mistake?”