"She did not at first," explained Clarice, "but Prudence found blood on the cuffs of a shirt you had worn."
"Very likely. When I was arranging the bedclothes of my murdered friend, the blood could easily have got on to the cuffs. So this was why Prudence gave up your brother; and I thought she did so because I wished it."
"Why did you wish it, Mr. Clarke? You were pleased, once."
"Yes," said the vicar, sadly, "for then I did not know what I know now."
"About Frank?"
"Never mention his name--never speak of him. I am not master of myself when I think--I think--" Mr. Clarke clutched his scanty locks with both hands and rushed suddenly from the room. Clarice did not wish to call him back, since she knew all that she wished to know. Clarke was innocent, and he had not set eyes upon her brother. So far Ferdy was safe. But who could have written that anonymous letter? Until the author of that was discovered, Clarice knew that she would have no peace of mind, as always she would be apprehensive lest Ferdy should be arrested.
All that afternoon Clarice puzzled over what was best to be done, and remained in her room with an aching head. Her feigned illness was rapidly turning to a real one, so sick did she feel with worry and anxiety. Then she received a surprise. Anthony's card was brought up, and Mrs. Rebson said that he was waiting for her in the drawing-room.
"Why is he here?" Clarice asked herself; then, hastily arranging her attire, she went down, filled with nervous fears.
"Clarice," said Anthony, abruptly, and coming forward with outstretched hands. "I have made a discovery--I must tell you at once what I have found out in Whitechapel."
"Have you been there? What about Ferdy?"