“Because––” Blaine paused, and when he spoke again, a solemn hush, almost of pity, had crept into his tones. “You come of a fine old line, Mr. Rockamore, of a splendid race. Your grandfather, the aged Earl, is living only in the past, proud of the record of his forebears. Your father is a soldier and statesman, valuable to the nation; his younger brother, Cedric, has achieved deserved fame and glory in the Boer War. There remains only you. For the sake of the innocent who must suffer with you, I have come to you to-night, that you may have an opportunity to––prepare yourself. In the morning I must arrest you. My duty is plain.”
As he uttered the words, the craven fear which had struggled through the malicious sneer on the other man’s face faded as if an obliterating hand had passed across his brow, and a look of indomitable courage and resignation 271 took its place. There was something akin to nobility in his expression as he turned to the detective with head proudly erect and shoulders squared.
“I thank you, Mr. Blaine,” he said, simply. “I understand. I shall not fail them––the others! You have been far more generous to me than I deserve. And now––good-night. You will find me here when you come in the morning.”
But in the morning Henry Blaine did not carry out his expressed intention. Instead, he sat at his desk, staring at the headlines in a paper spread out before him. The Honorable Bertrand Rockamore had been found dead on the floor of his den, with a bullet through his head. He would never allow his man to touch his guns, and had been engaged in cleaning one of them, as was his custom, in preparation for his annual shooting trip to Florida, when in some fashion it had been accidentally discharged.
“I wonder if I did the right thing!” mused Blaine. “He had the courage to do it, after all. Blood will tell, in the end.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE UNSEEN LISTENER
“There’s a man outside who wishes to speak to you, sir. Says his name is Hicks, but won’t tell his business.”