Old Valentine blinked at him, with stupid lack of perception. “What is it, sir?”
“I shall try it!” was Peyton’s unenlightening answer. “There’s one chance. And you can help me!”
“The devil I can!” replied Valentine, rising from his chair in some annoyance. “I won’t lend aid, I tell you!”
“It won’t be ‘lending aid.’ All I beg is that you ask Miss Elizabeth to see me alone at once,—and that you’ll forget all I’ve said to you. Don’t stand staring! For Christ’s sake, go and ask her to come in! Don’t you know? Only an hour,—less than that, now!”
“But she mayn’t come here for the asking,” objected the old man, somewhat dazed by Peyton’s petulance.
“She must come here!” cried Harry. “Induce her, beg her, entice her! Tell her I have a last request to make of my jailer,—no, excite her curiosity; tell her I have a confession to make, a plot to disclose,—anything! In heaven’s name, go and send her here!”
It was easier to comply with so light a request than to remain recipient of such torrent-like importunity. “I’ll try, sir,” said the peace-loving old 139 man, “but I have no hope,” and he hobbled from the room. He left the door open as he went, and Harry, tortured by impatience, heard him shuffling over the hall floor to the dining-room.
Peyton’s mind was in a whirl. He glanced at the clock. These were his thoughts:
“Fifty minutes! To make a woman love me! A proud woman, vain and wilful, who hates our cause, who detests me! To make her love me! How shall I begin? Keep your wits now, Harry, my son,—’tis for your life! How to begin? Why doesn’t she come? Damn the clock, how loud it ticks! I feel each tick. No, ’tis my heart I feel. My God, will she not come? And the time is going—”
“Well, sir, what is it?”