Now the intention of the two conspirators, who were conspiring, without
Clifford’s knowledge, to cure him of his infatuation, was to keep this
luckless adventure from coming to his ears. But it leaked out in spite
of them; and one evening, when they were enjoying their pipes in the
rooms they shared together, they found themselves confronted with King
himself, in a state of boiling indignation.
It was in vain they tried to prove to him how laudable their intentions
had been, how much for the good of the young lady herself it would have
been if they could have cleared up the ugly mystery.
“If you could have cleared it up, no one would have been more thankful,
more grateful than I,” retorted Clifford, whose face had grown haggard
with anxiety, with unhappiness on Nell’s account. “But to send a young
fool, without tact, without delicacy, like Lowndes, spying about, and
making a thundering idiot of himself--why, it was more what you would
expect of a couple of schoolboys than of two full-grown men out of
Hanwell!”
“As to that,” replied Conybeare, mildly, “I don’t know that Lowndes has
less tact than anybody else. I must say that, in the circumstances, I
should have acted very much as he did; at least as far as following the
woman to the room and through the window was concerned. One doesn’t
stand upon strict ceremony with a thief, even a female one.”
“Nell Claris is not a thief!” cried Clifford, with excitement. “I would
not believe it if all the judges and magistrates in England told me so!”
“Ah, that’s it! You will not believe. But, my dear fellow, do you think
Lowndes had anything to gain by telling a story which showed him in
such a ridiculous and undignified light?”
“I think that if he had been a man of more judgment and tact, he would
have found out something worth finding out, and not have made an ass of
himself during the proceedings.”
“Now, my dear Clifford, you are unreasonable, as all persons suffering
from your ailment are,” said Conybeare, rising, and standing in a
judicial attitude in front of the fire. “Because you admire this
young woman, you think she is incapable of a crime which has, in my
opinion, been traced clearly home to her. If the woman whom Lowndes
saw and followed was not Miss Claris, how was it that she made, when
pursued, straight for Miss Claris’s room? Could Miss Claris have a
bedfellow--there was only one bed in the room--without knowing it?
If she had a bedfellow, would not some person in the house have been
acquainted with the fact, and would not the sudden disappearance of
this person arouse suspicion even in the innocent mind of Miss Claris?”
“But I don’t believe a word of the whole story. Lowndes had too much
whisky before going to bed, and having his mind full of the tales you
had told him, he dreamed that he saw a woman in the room, and started
in pursuit of a wholly imaginary figure. You know he admits he had
nothing stolen. The only part of the story which I do believe is his
own idiotic flight through a door and a window, and the bath in the
river which sobered him.”
“All right,” said Conybeare. “It’s no business of mine whether you
believe Lowndes or not. Let us drop the subject.”
But to Clifford there was only one subject in the world, and as he
could not talk about that, he would not talk about anything. He sat
moodily silent for ten minutes, paying no heed to the conversation of
the other two, and then abruptly took his leave.
As soon as he had gone, Conybeare showed great excitement.
“Look here,” said he, with determination, “that fellow’s being ruined
by his infatuation for this little jade. If we don’t manage to bring
matters to a climax, he’ll be beforehand with us by going down and
marrying her, or some such folly. We’ve tried sending down an amateur
detective, and it’s been a failure. Let’s try a professional one.”
But Willie hung back.
“I don’t quite like to do that,” objected he. “Supposing the girl
didn’t do it, after all, you know? It would make us feel rather
small, wouldn’t it? And then, of course, Clifford would be more madly
infatuated than ever. He would rush down with a license in one pocket
and a ring in the other, and she’d come back ‘Mrs. King’ in the
twinkling of an eye.”
“Well, and why on earth shouldn’t he, _if_ the girl’s all right?” said
Conybeare, composedly. “I should have nothing to say against that.”
“But I should,” persisted Willie. “If you hadn’t persuaded me to think
her a thief, I should have liked her to be ‘Mrs. Jordan.’ And if she
does turn out to be innocent--”
“She won’t,” replied Conybeare, placidly. “I am not in love with the
girl, and I can see with clear eyes. But she’s so preciously artful
that it would take a clever chap to bring her to book. I shall call
round at a Detective Agent’s to-morrow.”
Now although both the friends were careful to keep the fact of this
determination from Clifford’s ears, the young barrister was shrewd
enough to guess that, having gone so far unsuccessfully, they would
feel bound to take some steps to vindicate their sagacity.
So fully convinced was he that they would make some fresh attempt
to fix the guilt of the robberies on Nell, that he went down to
Courtstairs at the end of the week, and on the Sunday morning walked
over to the Blue Lion, with the intention of warning her that she and
her uncle would probably be subjected to more annoyance of the kind
from which they had recently suffered.
His road lay past Shingle End, and as he approached Colonel Bostal’s
house he overtook the old gentleman and his daughter on their way back
from church.
The colonel, recognizing Clifford, as the latter merely raised his hat
and would have passed, called him to stop.
“No, no,” said he, good-humoredly, “we don’t get so many visitors down
from London at this time of year, that we can afford to let you go by
like that.”
Miss Bostal, however, was less cordial. She did not offer to shake
hands with him, and she eyed his tweed suit and low-crowned hat with
open disfavor.
“I am afraid,” said Clifford, “that Miss Bostal thinks I haven’t
brought enough of London down with me.”
The colonel laughed, and said they would overlook that. But the prim
little lady said icily:
“I know that young men take things easily, nowadays. It is the fashion.
But it used to be thought rather shocking to see a gentleman on Sundays
without a frock coat and a tall hat. I am old-fashioned and prejudiced,
I suppose, but--”
Her father interrupted her.
“Good gracious, Theodora, if you are old-fashioned, what ought I to be?
And I should think Mr. King very foolish to walk along a country road
in his Bond Street get-up on Sunday or any other day.”
“Oh, it is I who am foolish!” retorted Miss Theodora. “I suppose the
clergyman didn’t mind; he gets too much used to that sort of thing
nowadays. But in my young days, a vicar would have felt himself
insulted if any member of the upper classes had appeared at service in
such a costume.”
Even the colonel, who was presumably accustomed to his daughter’s
vagaries, was astonished at her acrimonious tones. Clifford, who was
hardly prepared with an answer, was much relieved when she made an
excuse of preparing dinner to leave him with her father.
As the spare figure, with its curiously old-fashioned dress of fifteen
years back, lifted up its skirts with both hands, in the ancient
manner, and disappeared into the house, the colonel laughed silently.
“I need not apologize for my daughter, I suppose,” he said, with a
twinkle in his eye. “Women fossilize more quickly than we do, you know.”
“I really began to feel rather frightened,” said Clifford. “I was
speculating as to what would happen if I should let slip the fact that
I hadn’t been to church at all this morning.”
“_She_ knew that as well as we did, I imagine,” said the colonel. “The
vicar gave us an hour and ten minutes of it this morning, so I suppose
she felt bitter.”
“I don’t see why she should have vented her feelings on me,” murmured
Clifford.
But the old gentleman suddenly stopped short. He had been walking on
with Clifford in the direction of the Blue Lion.
“I have it!” he exclaimed with conviction. “It’s on account of Nell
Claris, her little _protégée_. My daughter is very indignant about the
way in which the girl has been persecuted lately, and I suppose she
thinks that you have had something to do with it.”
“Then indeed she is wrong!” cried Clifford, hotly. “Nobody is more
angry than I am about it. And you will believe me when I tell you that
I have come down to-day on purpose to ask Nell, and for the second
time, to be my wife.”
The old gentleman listened with vivid interest.
“Come back with me; do come inside the house with me for one minute,”
he said, with as much excitement as the young man himself had shown.
“Theodora will be ready to embrace you when she hears.”
But Clifford, who was in no hurry to be embraced by Theodora, excused
himself. He had so little time, he said; he was afraid he should hardly
be able to get back to Courtstairs before dark.
“Tell Miss Theodora,” said he, “that I am very grateful to her for
believing in my darling girl. I call her mine, although she won’t give
me the right to do so. But I haven’t given up hope, and I shall not do
so, even if she refuses me again.”
Still it was with very little confidence in his immediate chances
of success that Clifford, after taking leave of the colonel, walked
briskly on to the little inn. He had written to Nell three or four
times, without receiving a single line in answer. She had not returned
his letters; she must have received and had probably read them. If
there was anything to hope for in that fact, he might hug the thought
to his heart; but, considering the terms in which he had written, the
warmth with which he had begged her to let him come down and see her,
there was very little encouragement in that.
He was luckier than he had ventured to expect. For as he came over the
little bridge which spanned the river, he saw Nell herself approaching
the house from the opposite direction. She had her prayer-book in her
hand, and was evidently returning from Stroan, where she had been to
church.
She saw him as soon as he saw her, stopped, turned pale, and ran a
few steps to the left, evidently with the hope of escaping into the
fields behind a group of cottages which stood between her and the inn.
But Clifford was too quick for her. She saw by the pace by which he
approached that it was useless to try to avoid him, so she gave up the
attempt, and came steadily on with her eyes on the ground.
“Miss Claris! Nell!” said he, in a low voice, as he came up to her.
She raised her eyes to his face for a moment only, and he saw that a
great change had taken place in the girl since he had last seen her.
There was in her face a sullen expression, as different as possible
from the child-like openness of face and manner which had seemed to him
her greatest charm. And his heart smote him as he thought that this
change had been brought about, though unintentionally indeed, by him.
“You are not glad to see me, I can see that,” he went on, hurriedly, as
he turned and kept pace with her. “Of course, I had no right to expect
that you would be, but still I had hoped.”
She made no answer.
“You got my letters?”
“Yes,” answered Nell, in a tone in which he was surprised to detect a
tremor.
“You know that I asked you to let me come down?”
“I--I did not write to say you might, though.”
But her tone was not angry, he thought.
“Well, I did wait as long as I could, but, Nell, I was too miserable
to wait any longer. And now that I see you, and see that you look
changed, and think that it is my fault, I feel as if I could hang
myself.”
He hoped she would say something, but she did not. After a few moments’
silence, he saw that a tear was falling down her cheek.
“Oh, my darling!” broke out Clifford, unable to restrain himself any
longer, “won’t you let me marry you and take you away? You have known
me long enough now, haven’t you?”
But Nell shook her head.
“I would never marry any one till this affair of the robberies was
cleared up,” answered she, firmly.
“And can’t you help us to find it out?”
At this her face changed. She looked up at him with an expression of
angry defiance.
“That is what you came down for, then--to see whether I could tell you
anything, and satisfy your curiosity without your having the trouble of
sending any more detectives down!” she cried, uttering the words with
breathless rapidity, while her frame shook from head to foot. “No, Mr.
King, I don’t know anything, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You
have begun by prying into this business your own way; you may finish it
your own way, too!”
“Nell, surely you don’t think I had anything to do with that wretched
business! You can’t think so--you can’t! Why, it is to warn you that I
have come--to warn you that some one else may be sent. Mind, I don’t
know this; I only guess it; but I thought it right that you should
know.”
But instead of seeming grateful for the information, Nell evidently
took it as a fresh offense.
“Why should you warn me?” she asked; and the pallor of her face gave
place suddenly to a red blush of anger. “Is it that I may put a check
to my larcenous propensities until he has gone away again?”
“Nell, Nell, how can you? You would not if you knew how horribly it
makes me suffer!”
“Suffer! Ah, it does matter when you suffer, doesn’t it? But when it is
only a country innkeeper’s niece who suffers, who cares? And yet one
would have thought--one would have thought--”
She broke down completely and burst into tears. Clifford was at least
as unhappy as she, and there was moisture in his own eyes as he tried
in vain to comfort her. He did succeed at last, however, in making
her confess that she had never believed that he had any share in the
sending from town of the amateur detective, Jack Lowndes. As for the
fresh arrival which Clifford told her to expect she shrugged her
shoulders about it when she had grown a little calmer.
“Let them send him,” she said, recklessly. “I shall not even advise my
uncle to refuse to let him stay, even if I guessed who he is. It must
all be found out some day, and the harder they try, the sooner it will
all be over.”
As she was now quite calm and dry-eyed, Clifford made one more attempt
to get at her own real views of the mystery. She had grown kinder to
him, and had acquitted him of all blame. For her own sake he must make
use of the opportunity.
And again when he put his question, there came into the girl’s face
that curious look, as if a vague, haunting memory had disturbed her
mind.
“I tell you solemnly, I have no more idea than you have yourself,”
said she. “I will confess now that I had a sort of horrible sort of
half-idea before--”
“And you will not tell me what that sort of half-idea was?” interrupted
Clifford, eagerly.
“No,” answered Nell, firmly.
“And now?” pursued Clifford.
“Now I have no more idea who did it than you have yourself. At first I
tried to think that this Mr. Lowndes went to sleep with his head full
of thoughts of robbery, and that he dreamed all that long story that
he told us. But the more I thought about his manner of telling us, the
more I could not help believing that it was not a dream, after all. And
yet--”
“You saw no one go through your room but him?”
“No one,” answered Nell, emphatically.
“Could it have been--the--the servant, the woman I saw in the bar?”
suggested Clifford, with lowered voice.
Nell smiled sadly.
“Poor Meg? No. She has been with my uncle for fifteen years; and, you
know, they say it is only lately, since I have been here, in fact,”
and again she grew crimson, “that the thefts have been committed. I am
ashamed to say that that night, when Mr. Lowndes had told his story, I
did go into poor Meg’s room, just to--just to see if she was there. And
she was fast asleep; _really_ fast asleep, not shamming. I tried her
with a lighted candle before her eyes; you see I was desperate,” she
added, in apology. “And then I even went downstairs and had a look at
old Nannie!”
And Nell looked deeply ashamed of the fact she was confessing.
But Clifford, who had naturally less delicacy on the subject of Nannie
and Meg, secretly cherished a hope that, in some inexplicable way, one
or the other of these estimable persons might get them all out of their
difficulty by eventually confessing to the thefts. But he was careful
to give no hint of this hope to Nell.
Clifford did not want to see George Claris, but he felt bound to do so.
The innkeeper was, as he had anticipated, very surly in manner toward
him; and he frustrated Clifford’s intention of opening his heart to him
on the subject of Nell by abruptly disappearing from the bar almost as
soon as the young man entered it.
Clifford did not see Nell again; she had entered the house at the back,
and he came in by the front, and although he lingered about until it
was almost dark in the hope that she would relent and come out and
bid him farewell, he was obliged to return to Courtstairs and thence
to town without that consolation. Nell, on the alert for the expected
visitor, was not long before she discovered him. He came, only a few
days after Clifford’s visit, in the guise of a mild-looking man with
sandy hair and pale eyes, one of those men whose age it is difficult to
guess until you perceive by a close inspection of the wrinkles under
the eyes that the apparent lad is well over forty.
George Claris had no suspicion of his visitor’s profession. In spite
of the rumors about the house, there were travellers staying there
about five nights in the seven. But then these were usually of a humble
class, whose pockets might be considered not worth the picking.
The detective himself, for such he was, called himself a commercial
traveller, and professed, during the four nights he spent under
the roof of the Blue Lion, to do a round of business calls in the
neighboring towns, returning to the inn toward evening, now from
one direction, now from another, in a perfectly unostentatious and
business-like manner. On the second day he announced that he should
have money to receive on the fourth, and he made this announcement in
the presence of as many people as he could. Jem Stickels, who still
hung about the Blue Lion with malicious eyes on Nell, two or three
other fishermen and a couple of farm laborers were in the bar at the
time.
Jem nudged one of his companions, and winked knowingly. The detective,
without appearing to do so, saw the wink and took note of Jem.
When the last lingerer had been turned out, and the Blue Lion had
closed its doors for the night, the detective made a few notes in his
own room before he went to bed.
On the fourth night, when he was supposed to be in possession of the
collected money, the detective went upstairs as usual, but not to
sleep. He had avoided such an accident by a nap in the afternoon. Fully
dressed, he lay down under the bed coverings, and for three hours,
listening intently to the slightest sound in the house, he waited.
And presently, about two hours before the dawn, the expected visitor
came.
Very softly, with the rapid, light movements of an expert, the figure
crept round by the wall, groping, searching. The man in bed sprang up,
leaped out, and planted his back against the door.
Then for five minutes he waited in vain. Not a sound betrayed the
presence of another person in the room. He took a box of matches from
his pocket, and struck a light. He could see the greater part of the
small room, but no trace of a human being besides himself.
After the lapse of a few minutes, it occurred to him that the intruder
might have concealed himself in a cupboard which filled the recess
between the wall and the fireplace on the other side of the bed.
Trusting to his own nimbleness to prevent the escape of the thief, he
climbed quickly over the bed, and had his hand on the cupboard door,
when a sound behind him caused him to turn his head just in time to
see the door of the room flung open by the shadowy figure, who must
have been in hiding under the bed.
The detective sprang to the door, and caught the disappearing figure by
the arm. Instantly it was as still as a statue.
“Now I have got you!” cried the detective, between his teeth. “Let’s
have a look at you.”
Still holding the arm in a firm grip, he struck a fusee from a case he
found in his handiest pocket. Before he could distinguish anything,
however, the light was promptly blown out by his prisoner, who began to
struggle violently. Still holding the glowing fusee, he tried, while
holding his captive, to distinguish her features by the red glow.
In her frantic efforts to free herself, she flung the back of one
imprisoned hand right upon the fusee, and uttered a short cry of pain.
The next moment, by a dexterous twist, she had wrenched herself away.
The next thing of which the detective was conscious was that there was
a sound like a fall at the bottom of the stairs, and then the back door
was opened and shut again with a bang.