A shudder passed through Edith. She flung her arms about her father, and placed herself before him, as if to interpose between him and that terrible fate which still pursued its innocent victim. She turned her large mournful eyes upon the sheriff with a look of silent horror, but said not a word. “I can not help it,” said the sheriff, in still deeper embarrassment. “I feel for you, for both of you, but you must come with me.” “Oh, spare him!” cried Edith. “He is ill. He has just risen from his bed. Leave him here. He is not fit to go. Let me nurse him.” The sheriff looked at her in increasing embarrassment, with a face full of pity. “I am deeply grieved,” he said, in a low voice, “but I can not do otherwise. I must do my duty. You, Mrs. Dudleigh, must come also. I have a warrant for you too.” “What!” groaned Dalton; “for her?” The sheriff said nothing. The old man's face had such an expression of anguish that words were useless. “Again!” murmured Dalton. “Again! and on that false charge! She will die! she will die!” “Oh, papa!” exclaimed Edith. “Do not think of me. I can bear it. There is no danger for me. It is for you only that I am anxious.” “My child! my darling Edith!” groaned the unhappy father, “this is my work--this is what I have wrought for you.” Edith pressed her father to her heart. She raised her pale face, and, looking upward, sighed out in her agony of soul, “O God! Is there any justice in heaven, when this is the justice of earth!” Nothing more was said. No one had any thing to say. This double arrest was something too terrible for words, and the darkest forebodings came to the mind of each one of these unhappy victims of the law. And thus, in silence and in fear, they were led away--to prison and to judgment. * * * * * CHAPTER LIII. THE BROTHERS. On leaving Dalton Hall Reginald went to the place mentioned by Miss Fortescue. It was on the railway, and was about four miles from Dudleigh Manor. Here he found Miss Fortescue.