“Yes, and a bad name, too,” said she, with flashing eyes.
“We’re beggars for life, anyhow,” growled another of the men.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Matalette. “Nell’s right—if we’re not tracked and caught, I’ll never be sorry that we sunk the accursed business for ever. And, considering our narrow escape, and how it happened, I don’t think we’re very gentlemanly to sit here bemoaning our luck. Mr. Crewne,” continued Matalette, crossing to the yellow-haired figure in front of the fire, “you’ve saved me—what can I give you?”
The young preacher recovered himself, and replied, briefly:
“Your soul.”
Matalette winced, and, in a weak voice, asked:
“Anything else?”
Crewne looked toward Helen; Helen blushed, and looked a little frightened; Crewne blushed, too, and seemed to be clearing his throat; then, with a mighty effort, he said:
“Yes—Helen.”
The counterfeiter looked at his daughter for an instant, and then failed to see her partly because something marred the clearness of his vision just then, and partly because Crewne, interpreting the father’s silence as consent, took possession of the reward he had named, and almost hid her from her father’s view.