She faltered here, and stopped.
“And which—” repeated the stranger.
“Which only one other person, I believe, could explain,” said Clemency, drawing her breath quickly.
“Who may that be?” asked the stranger.
“Mr. Michael Warden!” answered Clemency, almost in a shriek: at once conveying to her husband what she would have had him understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was recognised.
“You remember me, Sir,” said Clemency, trembling with emotion; “I saw just now you did! You remember me, that night in the garden. I was with her!”
“Yes. You were,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” returned Clemency. “Yes, to be sure. This is my husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace—run to Mr. Alfred—run somewhere, Ben! Bring somebody here, directly!”
“Stay!” said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between the door and Britain. “What would you do?”
“Let them know that you are here, Sir,” answered Clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation. “Let them know that they may hear of her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father and her loving sister—even her old servant, even me,” she struck herself upon the breast with both hands, “with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, run!” And still she pressed him on towards the door, and still Mr. Warden stood before it, with his hand stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully.