"If you leave the room, Ferdy," said Clarice, in a quiet and level voice, "you will run straight into the hands of the police."
The young man's face changed immediately to a chalky white, and he fell nervelessly into a chair near the door. "The police?" he whispered.
"Yes," said Clarice, pitilessly, for his unmanly terror disgusted her; "you will probably spend your night in gaol."
"Clarice!" Ferdy staggered to his feet, violently trembling. "I--I--I--don't know what you mean."
Ackworth gave a low laugh of scorn, and strolled to the hearth-rug to take up his position before the fire. "You had better confess," he said, in his sharp, military way.
"Confess what?"
"Oh!" Clarice clenched her hands and her eyes shot fire. "Why will you keep up this pretence? You know well enough what you have to confess. Will you do so here, or in the dock?"
"In the dock?" Ferdy flung forward half-way across the room. "I don't--I never did--what is it?--oh, Clarry, you are making a mistake."
"Is this a mistake?" asked his sister, and showed him the stamp.
Ferdy was drawn towards it like the ship to the fabled magnetic rocks in the Arabian tale. "Where--where did you get it?" he whispered.