Without any preliminaries, Reginald at once assailed him with the most vehement denunciations, and in a few burning words, fall of abhorrence and wrath, he accused him of this new piece of villainy.
“You're wrong—you're wrong—you're altogether wrong!” cried Leon, eagerly. “I have done nothing—I swear I've done nothing! I've never left the place.
“You've sent word!” cried Reginald, furiously.
“I have not—I swear I haven't!” said Leon. “I haven't written a line to any one. I've had no communication whatever with a single soul.”
“It's your work, and yours only!” cried Reginald; “and, by Heaven, you shall suffer for it! You've broken the agreement between us, and now I'll show you no mercy!”
“I haven't broken it! I swear by all that's most holy!” cried Leon, earnestly. “I see how it is. This is merely the result of the old rumors—the old work going on. I swear it is! Besides, what danger can happen to Miss Dalton? I need only show myself. I'll go there with you at once. Can I do more than that? When I am seen alive, there is no more danger for her. Do you think I'd be such an infernal fool as to work out such a piece of spite, which I would know to be utterly useless? No. I only want to wind up the whole affair, and get my freedom. I'll go there with you or without you, and make it all right so far as she is concerned. There. Can I do any thing more?”
These words mollified Reginald in some degree, since they showed that, after all, this new trouble might, as Leon said, have arisen from old machinations, as their natural result, and did not necessarily involve any new action on Leon's part.
“I'll go,” said Reginald, “and you shall go with me; but if I find that you have played me false this time, by Heaven, I'll crush you!”
Reginald, accompanied by Leon, hurried off at once to the succor of Edith, and arrived there on the following day. It was the fifth day of their imprisonment, but, to Reginald's immense relief, this new misfortune did not seem to have affected either of them so painfully as he had feared. For to Edith imprisonment was familiar now, and this time she had the discovery of Miss Fortescue to console her. Besides, she had her father to think of and to care for. The kindness of the authorities had allowed the two to be together as much as possible; and Edith, in the endeavor to console her father, had forced herself to look on the brighter side of things, and to hope for the best.
Dalton, too, had borne this arrest with equanimity. After the first shock was past he thought over all that was most favorable to escape rather than the gloomier surroundings of a situation like his. For himself he cared nothing. To be brought once more before a court of law was desirable rather than otherwise. His arrangements for his own vindication were all complete, and he knew that the court could only acquit him with honor. But about Edith he felt an anxiety which was deeper than he cared to show, for he did not know how the evidence against her would be received.