Suiting the action to the word, he went back and washed his face for the third time; then returning to the hall, he advanced toward Harold, who was now wide awake and standing up to meet him. As Arthur met the clear brown eyes fixed so curiously upon him, he stopped suddenly, and put his hand to his head as if trying to recall something; then going nearer to Harold, he said:
"Well, my little boy, what are you doing up here?"
"Telling the folks which way to go," was Harold's answer.
"Who are you?" Arthur continued. "What is your name?"
"Harold Hastings," was the reply; and instantly there came over the white face, and into the large, bright eyes, an expression which made the boy stand back as the tall man came up to him and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said excitedly:
"Harold Hastings! He was once my friend, or I thought he was; but I hate him now. And he was your father, and Amy Crawford was your mother? N'est-ce pas? Answer me!"
"Yes, sir—yes sir; but I don't know what you mean by 'na-se par,'" Harold said, in a frightened voice; and Arthur continued, as he tightened his grasp on his shoulder:
"I hated your father, and I hate you, and I am going to throw you over the stair railing!" and seizing Harold's coat collar, he swung him over the banister as if he had been a feather, while the boy struggled and fought, and held on to the rails, until help appeared in the person of Frank Tracy, who came swiftly up the stairs, demanding the cause of what he saw.
He had been standing near the drawing-room door, and had caught the sound of his brother's voice and Harold's as if in altercation. Excusing himself from those around him, he hastened to the scene of action in time to save Harold from a broken limb, if not a broken neck.
"What is it? What have you been doing?" he asked the boy, who replied amid his tears: