“David, don’t you know me?” called out Frank heartily; and came forth with outstretched hands.
But David did not get his cheeks right again for a good quarter-of-an-hour. And he was in a maze of wonder all day.
A warrant had been issued for the apprehension of Stephen Radcliffe of the Torr, and old Jones started off to the Torr to execute it. As if Stephen was likely to be found there! Ringing the bell, knocking at the door, shaking the handle, stood old Jones; the whole string of us behind burning to help him. It was not answered, and old Jones went at it again. You might have heard the noise over at Church Dykely.
Presently the door was drawn slowly back by Stephen Radcliffe’s daughter—the curate’s wife. She was trembling all over and looking fit to drop. Lizzy had come over from Birmingham and learned what had taken place. Naturally it scared her. She had always been the best of the bunch; and she had, of course, not known the true secret of the cries.
“I want to see Mr. Radcliffe, if you please, ma’am,” began old Jones, putting his foot inside, so that the door should not be closed again.
“My father is not here,” she answered, shaking and shivering.
“Not here!” repeated old Jones, surreptitiously stealing one hand round to feel the handcuffs.
“There’s no one in the house but myself,” she said. “When I got here, an hour or two ago, I found the place deserted.”
“I should like to see that for myself, ma’am,” returned incredulous old Jones.
“You can,” she answered, drawing back a little. For she saw how futile it would be to attempt to keep him out.