"I'm going to New York to-morrow," growls Mr. Laurence Thorndyke. "I was just telling her so as you hove in sight."
"Ah! you were just telling her so—the play is played out, then. May I ask, Mr. Laurence, though it is none of my business, how the poor thing takes it?"
"No, you mayn't ask," replies Mr. Laurence, with ferocity, "as you say it's none of your business. Liston! look here, you're not going to turn State's evidence, are you—honor bright? You are not going to tell the old man."
His angry voice drops to a pleading cadence. Mr. Liston's shifty light eyes look up at him for a moment.
"Do I ever tell Mr. Laurence? It is late in the day to ask such a question as that.
"So it is. You're not half a bad fellow, old boy, and have got me out of no end of scrapes. Get me out of this and I'll never forget it—that I swear. One of these days you shall have your reward in hard cash—that I promise you."
"When you marry Miss Holmes? It's a bargain, Mr. Laurence—I'll try and earn my reward. What is it you want me to do?"
"I'm going to New York to-morrow," Thorndyke says, hurriedly. "I must invent some excuse for the governor, and what I say you are to swear to. And when peace is proclaimed you must come back and tell her. I can't do it myself—by George, I can't."
"Is that all?" asked Mr. Liston.
"You'll look after her—poor little soul! and, if she wishes it, take her to her friends. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry—for her sake and for my own. But it's rather late for all that. Liston, is Richard Gilbert in town?"