‘You have my answer,’ was the reply.
‘Then take Michael Rust’s thanks!’ A flash and report followed; and when the smoke cleared away, the seducer was lying on the floor, stone dead. A bullet had passed through his head. The policeman rushed in the room.
‘If I could have had a week, I might have avoided this,’ said Rust, coldly. ‘As it was, I had no alternative.’
[!-- original reads 491 --]He rang the bell, and a servant came in. He pointed to his daughter, who was lying senseless at his feet.
‘Look to your mistress!’
Turning to the police men who stood by with blanched faces, he said: ‘Now then, I am ready!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.
In a small room, containing a box-bedstead, a single chair, and a common wooden table, on which was a pitcher of water, sat Michael Rust. The heavy iron bars which grated the windows, and the doors of thick oaken plank, secured by strong bolts of iron, indicated beyond a doubt the nature of his abode—a prison. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, with his arms resting on the table, which was drawn close to it, and his head leaning upon them. At times he straightened himself up, looked listlessly about the room, and then resumed his old position.
A key turned in the door; the heavy bolt was drawn back, and a head was thrust in.
‘Some one wants to see you. Shall he come in?’