“Yes, of course,” he said sharply; “do you wish me to lose the slightest chance of getting off?”
“But, Robert, dear,” she said innocently, but with the energy that pervaded her speaking, “why not go bravely to your trial? The truth must prevail.”
“Oh, yes,” he said cynically; “it is a way it has in courts of law.”
“Don’t speak like that, love. I want you to hold up your head bravely in the face of your detractors, to show how you have been tricked and injured, that this man Crellock, whom you have helped, has proved a villain—deceiving, robbing, and shamefully treating you.”
“Yes,” he said; “I should like to show all that.”
“Then don’t send me to Sir Gordon. I feel that there is no mercy to be expected from either him or Mr Bayle. They both hate you.”
“Most cordially, dear. By all that’s wearisome, I wish they would let me have a cigar here.”
“No, no; think of what you are telling me to do,” she cried eagerly, as she saw him wandering from the purpose in hand. “You say I must go to Sir Gordon?”
“Yes. Don’t say it outright, but give him to understand that if he will throw up this prosecution of his, it will be better for the bank. That I can give such information as will pay them.”
“You know so much about Stephen Crellock?” she said quickly.