Jack Townshead did not move at all. "I'll stand in the meantime." he said harshly. "Unfortunately there are more concerned than you."
"Yes," said Alton wearily. "Don't rub it in. I know. Who was it told you?"
"That's beyond the question," said the lad. "Still, last night one of our men who'd been down here came in and was telling the story in the boys' sleeping-shed. I knocked him down—that is, I meant to, and started out by the first train. I'm at the mine on the south road now."
"You haven't been home?"
"No," said Townshead grimly. "I came straight to you, and in the first place you're coming with me everywhere to deny this story."
Alton sat very still for a space, and the lad seemed to quiver as he watched him. "I can't—that is, not all of it."
Every trace of colour faded from Jack Townshead's face. "Good Lord!
Damn you, Alton—it can't be true."
Alton rose up slowly and stretched his hand out, while the veins swelled out on his forehead. Then he dropped it again.
"You'll be sorry for this by and by, Jack," he said. "Don't you know your sister better—you fool? Now sit down there, and I'll tell you everything."
The lad was evidently spirited, but he was a trifle awed by what he saw in Alton's eyes, and did as he was bidden. The hoarse voice he listened to carried conviction with it, but his face was almost haggard when the story was concluded. "Now," said Alton very slowly, "that's all, and for your sister's sake you dare not disbelieve me."