“Is that true?”
“No,” he muttered; “it isn’t.”
She was leaning over to him; he felt it, without looking up.
“Mr. Upton,” she said, speaking quickly in the undertone they were both instinctively adopting, “you know now what I thought about you at first. I won’t say what made me; but that was what I thought, but could hardly believe, and never will again. It makes it all the more a mystery, your being here. I can’t ask my uncle—he tells me nothing—but there’s something I can and must ask you.”
Pocket hung his head. He knew what was coming. It came.
“My uncle brought you here, Mr. Upton, on the very morning that thing happened they were calling out about to-day. In the Park. It is to the Park he goes so often in the early morning with his camera! How can I say what I want to say? But, if you think, you will see that everything points to it; especially the way he ran out for that paper—and hid the truth when he came in!”
Pocket looked up at last.
“I know the truth.”
“About the arrest?”
“Yes; it was quite obvious, and he admitted it when you’d gone.”