I can scarcely describe the rest. It is sufficient that a brave man rescued me—at what a fearful cost to himself, I only learned afterward. I escaped from the hovel, and reached my home. You know the rest: how Daisy vanished, and all the sorrow since. And now I tell you that I believe these two have stolen Daisy.
Here he breaks off abruptly. “The rest is a mixture of business affairs and hurried directions how to dispose of her property should she be long absent, or should she never return, etc. At the close she says, that on the night of her adventure at the hovel, and during the affray, a man was killed; and that either herself or her brave rescuer, she is informed, is likely to be arrested for that crime; and in case of the arrest of either, the other will be compelled to testify for or against.”
“And her motive for now quitting her home so suddenly?”
“Of that she says very little; merely that she is leaving, and that she hopes I will continue my confidence in her.”
“Which you do?”
“Which I do.”
For many moments Alan Warburton sat with his head bowed, and his face pale and troubled, saying nothing. Then he roused himself, and turned towards his companion.
“Mr. Follingsbee,” he said, very gravely, “if this story—a part of which you have told me, the rest being contained in that letter—is true; if Leslie Warburton has been a martyr throughout this affair, then I am a most contemptible scoundrel!”
“You!” ejaculated the old gentleman testily; “you a scoundrel! Good heavens, has everybody gone into high dramatics? What have you done?”
“I have accused Leslie of receiving a lover in her own house; of going from her home to meet him; I have heaped upon her insult after insult; I have driven her from her home by my cruel accusations!”