“Wait; I want your advice, too, your aid, perhaps. Mr. Follingsbee also shall hear me.”
She started toward the library, but the detective put out a detaining hand.
“Stop!” he said, firmly. “If what you are about to say includes anything concerning Alan Warburton, or the story of that night, we must have no confidants while his liberty and life are menaced. His identity with that missing Sailor must never be known, even by Mr. Follingsbee.”
She breathed a shuddering sigh, and returned to her seat.
“You are right,” she said hurriedly; “and until you shall advise me otherwise, I will tell my story to none but you.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
LESLIE’S STORY.
“I shall not weary you with a long story,” began Leslie Warburton; “this is not the time for it, and I am not in the mood. My husband lies above us, hopelessly ill. My little step-daughter is lost, and in Heaven only knows what danger. My brother-in-law is a hunted man, accused of the most atrocious of crimes. And I feel that I am the unhappy cause of all these calamities. If I have erred, I am doubly punished. Let me give you the bare facts, Mr. Stanhope; such details as you may wish can be supplied hereafter.