Farvel had not noticed what passed between the two women. He was watching Wallace. "And you——" he began presently.
The younger man straightened, writhed within his clothes as if he were in pain, and went back to his stooping position once more—all with that swiftness which was so like the effect of an electrical current. "Alan," he whispered.
"—What had you to do with it?" went on the clergyman.
Clare scoffed. "Wallace had nothing to do with it," she declared.
"What in the dickens is the matter with you?"
"Nothing to do with it?" repeated Farvel. Then, with sudden fury, "Look at him!" He made for Wallace, pushing aside a chair that was not in his way.
"Alan! Stop!" Clare rose, and Mrs. Milo rose, too.
"Come now, Wallace," Farvel said more quietly. "I want the truth."
Mrs. Milo hastened to her son. "Darling, I know you haven't done anything wrong," she said, tenderly. "This 'friend' is trying to shift the blame. Stand up for yourself, my boy. Mother believes in you."
Wallace's chin sank to his breast. At the end of his long arms, his hands knotted and unknotted like the hands of a man in agony.
"My dearest!" comforted his mother. His suffering was evidence of guilt to Balcome and Farvel; to her it was grief, at having been put under unjust suspicion.