“There never was—such an angel,” he replied, and a faint, half-mocking, yet utterly sweet smile flitted across his face.
“Nancy, my strength is going. See you get the boy.”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Nance. Simpkins knows where he is—so does—Scrivener. So, I fancy, does Sophy—the girl in this house. If—Simpkins and Scrivener fail you—turn to—Sophy. She was always fond of me—poor Sophy! If she—helps you—take her away with you afterwards—for in doing—what you want, she may bring her own—life—into danger. Go away yourself, too. Little woman—you’ll hear terrible things.”
“I don’t care,” she replied. “What are terrible tidings to me if I don’t believe them?”
Rowton smiled into her eyes.
“I would—I might always remain thy white knight,” he said. “Black to everyone else—but white to thee. There!—it is too much to hope.”
He panted, his breath failed him. Nance held some brandy to his lips. He presently closed his eyes.
She sat down on the floor by his side, and slipped her arm under his neck, so that his head rested on her breast.