The worst of the matter was that she couldn't help fearing the policeman was in the right. Putting two and two together, it seemed likely.
You see, she'd no manner of security about Walter. She might cry out in hot defence of him: "He never would! He never could!" but to say the same words in quiet certainty was another matter.
After a while it was settled that Mary should have a talk with her brother the same evening, and the policeman would call again later. It showed his trust in Mary, that he was willing to wait. She told him she knew she had more power over Walter than anybody else; and she thought she could bring him to confess. She promised for Walter that he should be there, when the policeman called.
"Well, I'll risk it," said he at last. "I'll risk it. Don't seem to me there's been downright dishonesty: though there's been a lot of deceiving. Anyhow, I've got to get to the bottom of the matter. And the quieter it's done the better; only mind you, Mr. Phrynne is bent on getting back the watch."
Then the policeman went away, and Mary knelt down just where she was, all alone, to pray to be made to say the right words. It must have been a sorrowful hour that she passed, waiting for her brother; only she had the comfort of praying.
Walter had his tea when he came back, and he seemed uncommon lively, as he'd been the past few days. Mary couldn't eat nor talk through the meal, but Walter did plenty of both.
"What's the matter?" says he at last. "You look dumpish."
Mary had not made up her mind when nor how to speak; but in a moment she resolved not to put it off.
"Walter!" says she, looking at him, "why didn't you tell me you had been to Claxton the day I came home?"
Walter went as red as fire.