“Stop—stop, for God’s sake!” he cried, huskily. “Are you mad, Master Dandy—are you mad? I tell you it can be hidden; no man knows of it but myself, and Miss Barnshaw will say nothing.”
“I tell you it shall not be hidden,” cried Philip, impatiently. “Why—if any one found you here, digging a grave for it—don’t you understand that suspicion would fall upon you?”
“I don’t care about that, Master Dandy,” he cried. “Better me than you. Let them think what they will, Master Dandy; only get you gone, before the hue and cry is raised.”
“No—I shall not go,” replied Philip, speaking quite calmly, and with a certain hopeless note in his voice which was more impressive than any other utterance could have been. “My dear boy—you can’t understand that it doesn’t matter one little bit—now. It has been a blunder and a muddle, from first to last; Fate has proved too strong for me—I’ll struggle against it no longer.”
“But, Master Dandy,” urged the eager voice—“won’t you let me hide it—at least, for the moment? It will give you time to get away—time to hide.”
“I tell you I shall not hide,” said Philip, quietly. “Come away; I won’t have you mixed up in the business. Why—dear lad”—he dropped his hand, for a moment, on the other’s shoulder—“there’s a sweet girl, whom you love, and who loves you, I’ll be bound, no matter what she may say. Your life is straight before you; you mustn’t throw it away on me.”
He turned, and went in the direction he had come, looking behind him once, to be certain that the other was following. Suddenly remembering that he was like a blind man, groping his way, and having no desire to go near Madge Barnshaw’s house again, he turned abruptly, when he had gone a little way, and motioned to Harry to go before him.
“Lead the way,” he said, in the old tone of authority—“I want to be sure that you don’t go back again.”
Harry passed him, with bent head, and walked in front. And in that order they came to Chater Hall.
Once inside the home which he felt was rightly his, and surrounded by the quiet and luxurious repose of it, the mood of the man changed. He was but young, and life was very, very sweet. Quixotism, self-sacrifice, despair; all these things went to the winds. He was a hunted man, playing a desperate game with chance, with his life for the stake. Figuratively speaking, he had his back to the wall; and he meant to make a fight for it, before he gave in.