“And who is the person?” asked Clifford, quickly.
“A young man who has obtained a great influence over her, and who has probably by this time become her husband,” replied Miss Bostal.
Clifford could not repress a movement of anxiety at these words. Miss Bostal tried to persuade him to come back into the dining-room with her and to stay to tea. But he excused himself and, with a rather colder leave-taking than he had expected, he left the house by the back door, and heard Miss Theodora draw the bolts before he reached the end of the garden.
This visit had left an extraordinary impression upon him.
There had flashed through his mind, as he noted the effect which Theodora’s prattle made upon her father, an uneasy suspicion whether the Colonel himself was not in some way implicated in the murder of Jem Stickels and the robberies at the Blue Lion. It was quite clear that poor Miss Theodora had no inkling of this, for she had chattered away without even noticing her father’s uneasiness. It was in vain, however, that Clifford tried to imagine any series of circumstances by which the old Colonel could have been implicated in the crimes. On the other hand, they remained just as inexplicable at the hands of any other person.
It was with a great sinking of the heart that Clifford began to feel his own belief in Nell’s complete innocence giving way. He was forced again to take refuge in the belief that, if she had been an agent in these criminal acts, she had been an unconscious one. And the thought which was uppermost in his mind was: What steps should he take to find her? The feeling which was strongest in his heart was the desire to shelter her from the consequences of those acts.
But the question was: How to find her? Clifford had been down to Stroan already to make inquiries, but had been unable to obtain any tidings of the uncle or the niece more definite than the vague rumor that George Claris was “shut up somewhere.”
Clifford paused for a few moments outside the garden gate of Shingle End, wondering whether he would apply for information to the police at Stroan. It was a step he dreaded to take, although he began to think it was the only one likely to lead to his obtaining the details he wanted.
As he stood looking vaguely along the road, he suddenly perceived that an old woman, who was standing at the door of the ancient turnpike cottage, was blinking and nodding at him in a mysterious manner. He took a few steps in her direction, and she came out in the road to meet him.
“So, you’ve been a-visiting, have you, sir?” she said, in a deep, gruff whisper, glancing up at the gloomy windows of Shingle End. “Aye, they want a few lively folk to come and see ’em and cheer ’em up, for sure!”