"We'll string yer to a tree, yer——"
"Fellers, let's burn the damn rat out!"
Stanhope's face went from white to pale green. He steadied himself against the table with a hand that quivered, and looked at Varney.
"It's—it's you they want," he said.
"O my Gawd," cried Henry and put his face into his hands.
"Yes," said Varney, averting his eyes also, "it's I they want." And he started for the door.
But Henry, who had noted the marked resemblance between the two men and had caught faint glimmerings of what these strange things meant, barred his way with an immortal rejoinder.
"Hif you please, sir, Stanhope was the name they called."
Varney gave a tired laugh. His terrible headache made him chafe at any prolonging of the scene. Moreover, it made rational thought difficult, twisting common-sense into fanciful shapes. It seemed to him an unendurable thing that he should protect himself under the wing of such a man as Stanhope; and the thought of fierce action drew him like a lodestone.
"You're a good fellow, Henry," he said quietly. "However, your master and I agree perfectly."