“The Lord God makes no mistakes, sir,” cried Cæsar.
“But what if it was not Ross——” began Philip. Cæsar paid no heed.
“What if it was not Ross——” Cæsar glanced over his shoulder.
“What if it was some one else——” said Philip. Cæsar stopped in front of him.
“Some one you have never thought of—some one you have respected and even held in honour——”
“Who, then?” said Cæsar huskily.
“Mr. Cregeen,” said Philip, “it is hard for me to speak. I had not intended to speak yet; but I should hold myself in horror if I were silent now. You have been living in awful error. Whatever the cost, whatever the consequences, you must not remain in that error a moment longer. It was not Ross who took away your daughter.”
“Who was it?” cried Cæsar. His voice had the sound of a cracked bell.
Philip struggled hard. He tried to confess. His eyes wandered about the walls. “As you have cherished a mistaken resentment,” he faltered, “so you have nourished a mistaken gratitude.”
“Who? who?” cried Cæsar, looking fixedly into Philip's face.