Chapter Thirty.
Contains the End.
For a quarter of an hour we remained there in the presence of the dead.
The grey light in the side-ward faded into darkness. The electric light had not been switched on. The sobs and lamentations of Lady Thorold and her daughter, locked in each other’s arms, began slowly to subside.
Gradually my thoughts drifted to the past, and all that had happened in those years I had known Thorold so intimately, and had loved him almost as a father. One thought afforded me most intense happiness. At last the time had come when I should be able to prove to Vera the intense love I bore her.
“Be good to her—you will be good to her—Dick—always,” had been her father’s dying request. Ah, how well I would obey my dear friend’s last request! Never again should unhappiness of any kind cross his child’s path, if I could prevent it. I would show her how, in my opinion, a husband should treat a wife.
My thoughts drifted to Houghton. What had happened there, I wondered. What was happening now?
Ah! What was happening! Had I known what was happening in those moments I should not, perhaps, have felt as restful as I did.
Next day the newspapers were full of it.
The “Siege,” as they had termed it, had in truth become a real and desperate siege. All attempts to dislodge Paulton, Henderson, and the woman with them, had proved of no avail. Several policemen had since been severely wounded. This was due to the fact that the police, under the impression that the besieged men were armed only with shot-guns, had approached, as they believed with impunity, rather close to the house. All at once, a murderous fusillade had been opened upon them from a shuttered window—only by chance, indeed, had the result not proved again fatal. The wounds the police had received had been dreadful, far worse than bullet wounds, for the assailants had, by cutting the paper cases of the shot-cartridges round the middle with a knife, caused the charge of shot to travel like a bullet, which burst open when it struck.