"Ye--ye--No!" Hawkesworth answered, uncertain for a moment which reply would be the better taken. "No; I--she left me, I tell you," he continued hurriedly, "and went on the stage against my will."
The clock-maker laughed cunningly, and his face was not pleasant to see. "She's not with you," he said, "she's not married to you, and she's not in London? You deceived her, my fine fellow, and left her. That's the story, is it? That's the story I've waited two years to hear."
"She left me," Hawkesworth answered. "Against my will, I tell you."
"Anyway she's gone, and 'twill make no difference to her what happens to you. So I'll hang you, you devil," the old man continued, with a cold chuckling determination, that chilled Hawkesworth's blood. "No, you don't," he continued, withdrawing one half of his body through the doorway, as Hawkesworth took a step towards him. "You don't pinch me that way! Another step, and I give the alarm."
Hawkesworth recalled the opinion he had held of this grasping old curmudgeon, his former landlord--who had loved his gay, flirty daughter a little, and his paltry savings more; and his heart misgave him. The alarm once given, the neighbourhood roused, at the best, and if no worse thing befel him, he would be arrested. Arrest meant the ruin of his present schemes. "Oh, come, Mr. Grocott," he faltered. "You will not do it. You'll not be so foolish."
"Why not?" the other snarled, in cruel enjoyment of his fears. "Eh! Tell me that. Why not?"
But even as he spoke Hawkesworth saw the way out of his dilemma. "Because you'll not do a thing you will repent all your life," he said, his brazen assurance returning as quickly as it had departed. "Because you'll not ruin your daughter. Have done, hold your hand, man, and in two days I'll make her a grand lady."
"You'll marry her, I suppose," old Grocott answered with a savage sneer.
"Yes, to a man of title and property."
"You're a great liar."