She sunk on her knees and held up her clasped hands.
"Thank God! thank God! thank God!"
Next day they sailed for England. The passage was all that could be desired, even by the impatience of Harriet.
They arrived in Liverpool. Mr. Parmalee and his companion posted full speed down to Devonshire. In the luminous dusk of the soft May evening they reached Worrel, Harriet's thick veil hiding her from every eye.
"We'll go to Mr. Bryson's first," said Parmalee, Bryson being Sir Everard's lawyer. "We're in the very nick of time; to-morrow morning at day-dawn is fixed for——"
"Oh, hush!" in a voice of agony; "not that fearful word!"
They reached the house of Mr. Bryson. He sat over his eight-o'clock cup of tea, with a very gloomy face. He had known Sir Everard all his life—he had known his beautiful bride, so passionately beloved. He had bidden the doomed baronet a last farewell that afternoon.
"He never did it," said he to himself. "There is a horrible mystery somewhere. He never did it—I could stake my life on his innocence—and he is to die to-morrow, poor fellow! That missing man, Parmalee, did it, and that fierce young woman with the big black eyes and deceitful tongue was his aider and abettor. If I could only find that man!"
A servant entered with a card, "G. W. Parmalee." The lawyer rose with a cry.
"Good Heaven above! It can't be! It's too good to be true! He never would rush into the lion's den in this way. John Thomas, who gave you this?"