The weight of care sprang up from off the girl’s heart at one bound. The entire trust which Clifford showed in her was just the balm her wounded soul needed; and the hour the nurse allowed her to spend by her lover’s bedside, although it was passed almost in silence after this explanation, was one of happiness and relief so deep that she went out to face the world and her uncle’s suspicion with fresh courage.
Clifford’s wound had proved more serious than was at first supposed. There was risk of inflammation, and the doctors ordered that he was to be kept very quiet. When, therefore, that same evening, Hemming called at the inn, and asked to see Mr. King, he would have been denied altogether if Clifford himself had not heard the inquiry, and recognizing the voice, insisted on seeing the detective.
“Well, and what do you want with me?” asked Clifford, with interest, as Hemming was shown into his tiny room.
“Well, sir, I hear you’ve seen Miss Claris since the inquest,” was the detective’s rather abrupt opening.
“Yes. Well?”
“Well, sir, things look about as black for her as they well can.”
And he gave the young man a shrewd look as he pronounced this statement. Clifford said nothing, and Hemming went on:
“Knowing how you were—were a friend of the young lady, sir, I thought it only right you should know as I am downright certain who was at the bottom both of the murder and the robbery; and I’m only waiting to make the chain of proof a little stronger before making an arrest.”
“Of whom?”
“I leave you to guess, sir. I may tell you I’ve found the pistol”—Clifford started—“and the bullet fits it exactly.”