Celia was calm now; her momentary terror had given place to grief and pity for the man she loved. Not for a second did any doubt of his innocence assail her. With that almost divine intuition of true love, she knew, not only that he was innocent, but that this crime was in some way or other connected with the former one, that of the forged cheque.
"Yes, I will go back to the Hall," she said; "but you will let me speak to Mr. Green before I go?"
"Of course, I can't prevent you," said the Inspector; "but you must say what you have to say in my hearing, and, of course, I shall take note of every word."
Celia went to Derrick, put her arm round his neck and kissed him.
"I can wait, dearest," she said. "You will not let this—this weigh upon you, trouble you?"
He was silent for a moment, his lips working; but the kiss she had impressed upon him strengthened and nerved him.
"God bless you, Celia!" he murmured, very quietly. "Go now! One moment—is the Marquess dying?"
"No," she said, with a dry little sob. "He is very bad, has been dreadfully injured, but he may recover."
"Thank God!" said Derrick. "That is all I will say. Go back, now, dearest. I will write to you—if they will let me."
The two men moved on; but she stood, her hand pressed against the tree, as if for support, as if she were unable to move, her eyes following the two figures; and as she watched them, in an agony, she saw a third figure coming through the gate. For a moment she did not recognize it, then she saw that it was Mr. Clendon. She saw him stop in front of the other two men and she ran forward, calling his name, and, in another instant, she was clinging to him. The old man murmured her name soothingly, and she tried to control herself; but her voice was broken by sobs, as she said: