“Now, Nell, do you feel better?” asked Clifford, as a faint smile began to hover on the girl’s face.
“Yes, I do, much better,” answered she in a more self-possessed tone. “Now I can tell you something. My uncle thinks I—I—did it.”
“Shot Jem Stickels?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what on earth is he to think? It is just what I should have thought myself if—”
“If what?”
“If I hadn’t happened to be in love with you.”
Nell stared.
“You don’t mean that, really?”
“Yes, but I do, though. Look here; I got the nurse to pay some one to go to the inquest and report to me. He did, when the jury adjourned for luncheon. And now I’ve just heard of your evidence and the verdict, and I don’t see how anybody, except me, could fail to suspect you. Yes, you.”