"Well, then, Sarah says that she saw my father come quickly out of the window of your uncle's bedroom, and run out of the garden and up the lane. She was in the shadow, and he passed her rapidly, but she saw for one second in the moonlight, his face, white and terrified. She went and got the sal volatile, and told no one of what she had seen, not even her mother, until she came to use her knowledge to part me from Ferdy."
When Prudence paused, Clarice looked at her with an unmoved face. "Well, my dear?"
"Well," said Prudence, "that is Sarah Dumps' story."
"A very weak one. I believe she made it up. She could not get your father arrested on that evidence."
"But, Clarice," Prudence placed her lips at the girl's ear; "I laughed at Sarah's wild story. But when she went I examined my father's bedroom. I found a shirt thrown into the washing basket, which had not been called for--the basket, I mean--owing to the holidays. I found that the wrists were spotted with blood."
"Oh!" Clarice started. "Are you certain that it was blood?"
"Quite certain. I dipped one of the cuffs in water, and the spots turned perfectly red. Clarice," she gripped her friend's hand tightly, "do you think that my father really is guilty?"
"I can't think that, Prudence. He had no reason--everything was arranged between him and Uncle Henry."
"Yes. Father said that at the inquest, but he may have told an untruth to shield himself."
"Prudence, do you believe that your father is guilty?"