"There is some mystery here. All I can understand of it is—that you wish me to count you guilty—"
She moved her lips, as if in protest.
"And that you—are not guilty."
Another swift glance, this time of gratitude. It was swiftly checked.
"I cannot fathom your motives," Dr. Bryant went on, with judicially-assumed sternness: "nor can I suppose them to be right. But I confess, without stronger evidence, I am unable to believe this thing of you."
"Evidence enough for any reasonable person, I should think," said Theodosia, in his rear. "If you want more proof, why not search her boxes!"
"Nonsense! As if that would settle anything! No! I do not see my way to any further step at this moment. Sooner or later something will turn up to throw light on the subject . . . Remember, Lettice, though I do not actually believe you guilty, I am very much displeased. More, I am disappointed in you. There is a want of straightforwardness in your conduct, which I could not have expected. You are not treating me as I have a right to be treated. If a mystery exists, I ought to be told what it is: and if you did not take the bank-note, as I believe you did not—you ought to avow your innocence. Until you can resolve to show me your old frankness, I cannot feel my old confidence in you."
She said "No" in a low voice, her lips quivering.
"To-day I will not press you further. You are not quite fit for it, physically. But, understand—while this mystery lasts, things cannot be between us as they have been."
Dr. Bryant passed out of the room with a heavy and grieved step, Theodosia following.