“Harry,” she cried, hiding her face against his leg, and still clutching him desperately—“for the love of God, be silent! For the love of all the good angels—don’t betray him!”
A sort of fierce struggle seemed to go on, for a moment, in the lad’s breast; finally, looking down at her, he stooped, and caught her half roughly by the arm, and released himself—stepping back a little, so that she trailed over the floor after him.
“Harry! Harry!” was all she said, with a sort of sob in her voice.
“Is there a man here who wants the murderer of Patience Miller?” he cried again. “I’ve seen him, not a moment since; I know which way he’s gone. I found him talking with this—this girl. I’ll lead any man to him; I’ll track him down anywhere. Who wants him?”
“I’m your man,” cried Tokely, advancing to him, sobered by the scene he had witnessed. “Who’s the man?”
“Harry! Harry!” wailed the girl again, without rising, or looking up.
The lad seemed to choke down something in his throat, before he spoke. “Dandy Chater,” he said, after a moment’s pause.
“That’s my man,” cried Tokely, bringing his fist down heavily on the table. “And for a thousand pounds I’ll have Dandy Chater to-night, before I sleep! Come on!”
Catching Harry by the arm, and snatching up his own hat, he hurried with him out of the still open door, and vanished in the darkness.