"Yes, she be," replied Bingham; "what a pity 'tis that she's sure to be scragged!"
"So it is," added Mr. Dykes. "And now, you stay here, old chap—while I just make a search about the place to see if I can find any of the blunt raised by the forgery."
Thus speaking, the officer quitted the room.
"Oh! ma'am, pray don't take on so," said the good-natured servant-maid, endeavouring to console her mistress. "It must be some mistake—I know it is,—you never could have done what they say! I wish master would come home—he'd soon put 'em out of the place."
"My God! my God! what will become of me?" murmured Mrs. Torrens, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Oh! what shall I do? what will the world say? Just heavens! this is terrible—terrible!"
At that moment the parlour door was opened violently, and Mr. Dykes made his appearance, dragging in the lad Harry, who was straggling to get away, and blubbering as if his heart were ready to break.
"Hold your tongue, you damned young fool!" cried Dykes, giving him a good shake, which only made him bawl out the more lustily: "no one ain't a going to do you no harm—but we must keep you as a witness. Bless the boy—I don't suppose you had any hand in the murder."
These last words brought back to the mind of Mrs. Torrens the dread discovery which had ere now been made in the garden, and the remembrance of which had been chased away by the appalling peril that had suddenly overtaken her: but at the observation of the Bow Street runner to the boy, she uttered a faint hysterical scream, and fell back in a state of semi-stupefaction.
"Murder did you say, old fellow?" demanded Bingham.
"Yes—summut in that way," returned Dykes. "At all events there's a man with his throat cut from ear to ear lying at the bottom of a hole in the garden——"