"I must tell it you before you go upstairs."
He linked his arm within his friend's, and drew him to the window. It
was broad daylight still, but gloomy there: the window had the pleasure
of reposing under the leads, and was gloomy at noon. Lord Hartledon
hesitated still. "Elster's folly!" were the words mechanically floating
in the mind of Thomas Carr.
"It is an awful story, Carr; bad and wicked."
"Let me hear it at once," replied Thomas Carr.
"I am in danger of--of--in short, that person upstairs could have me
apprehended to-night. I would not tell you but that I must do so. I must
have advice, assistance; but you'll start from me when you hear it."
"I will stand by you, whatever it may be. If a man has ever need of a
friend, it must be in his extremity."
Lord Hartledon stood, and whispered a strange tale. It was anything but
coherent to the clear-minded barrister; nevertheless, as he gathered one
or two of its points he did start back, as Hartledon had foretold, and an
exclamation of dismay burst from his lips.
"And you could _marry_--with this hanging over your head!"
"Carr--"
The butler came in with an interruption.
"My lady wishes to know whether your lordship is going out with her
to-night."
"Not to-night," answered Lord Hartledon, pointing to the door for the man
to make his exit. "It is of her I think, not of myself," he murmured to
Mr.
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