“Go to them at once. Tell them of his attack upon me.”
“They have forgotten the past, and will say it is the invention of a jealous enemy.”
“Then I will go myself,” cried the old man; and, feeble though he was, he insisted upon dressing for his self-imposed task.
“They will believe me,” he said; “and though I can hardly think there is danger to anyone but us, whom Barron seems instinctively to associate with his injury, Sir Mark must know the facts.”
“Yes,” said Stratton gravely; “he must know. I will go with you now. He cannot doubt you.”
The old man tottered a little, but his strong will supplied the strength, and, taking his stick, they moved toward the door.
“We have done wrong, Stratton,” he said; “the man should have been denounced. I ought to have acted more wisely, but at first my only thought was to save you from the consequences of your misfortune, and keep all I knew from ever reaching Myra’s ears. Our sin has found us out, and there is nothing for it but to make a clean breast now.”
Stratton hesitated for a few moments.
“You are too feeble,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” cried the woman, who came forward. “Monsieur is too ill to go out. It is horrible that he should be so bad at our poor house.”