To Bram’s great surprise, these words had such an effect upon Theodore that he said nothing in reply, but with an unintelligible murmur shuffled upstairs at once.
Bram felt rather remorseful when he saw how the little man took his words to heart, and wondered whether he was less easy in his mind than he affected to be. He returned to the kitchen, where Claire was sitting up on the sofa listening intently.
“Who’s that?” she said in a husky voice of alarm.
Bram, who had heard nothing, listened too. And then he found that her ears were keener than his own, for in another moment there came Joan’s heavy rap-tap-tap on the door.
He let her in, and saw at once that she had heard something of the occurrences of the evening. Her good-natured face was pale and alarmed; she looked at Claire with eloquent eyes.
“Oh, sir, do you think it’s true?” she asked in an agitated whisper. “That she did it, that our poor, little Miss Claire killed him, killed Mr. Chris?”
“Don’t let us think about it,” said he quickly. “It was nothing but a shocking accident, if she did; of that you may be sure.”
“But will they be able to prove that?” asked the good woman anxiously.
“We’ll hope they may,” said he gravely. “In the meantime she’s so ill that she can tell us nothing; she’s forgotten all about it. You must get her upstairs.”
Joan set about this task with only the delay caused by the necessity of lighting a fire in the invalid’s bedroom. Claire meanwhile remained silent, keeping her eyes fixed upon Bram with an intent gaze which touched him by its pathetic lack of meaning.