As his fingers closed upon those of the thief, however, he was struck with a sudden and awful chill on finding that the skin was smooth as satin, that the trembling fingers were slender and soft, the hand small and delicate—a hand that he knew!
“Who are you? Who are you?” he cried, hoarsely.
But he got no answer but the answer of his own heart. His agitation was so great that the little hand wriggled out of his, still bearing his watch and his purse; and in another moment the door had opened and closed, and he was alone.
CHAPTER III.
Clifford King sat up in bed when the door had closed with a flicker of dim light and a rush of cool air, shaking from head to foot with excitement and horror which made him cold and sick.
Was she a thief, then, a common thief, this blue-eyed, pink-cheeked girl who had infatuated him the evening before? This Nell of the soft voice and the bright hair, to whose pretty talk he had listened with delight, whom he had been ready to worship for her gentleness, her affectionate kindness for her rough old uncle? No, it was impossible. He had been dreaming. He would wake presently to find that the experiences of the last few minutes had been a nightmare only.
With a wish to this effect so strong that it was almost a belief, he thrust his hand under his pillow and felt about for his watch and his purse. But they were gone, without the possibility of a doubt.
He sprang out of bed, groped his way to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. The dawn was breaking, and a pale, golden light was on the sea. The rain of the night before had made the air cool and fresh, and Clifford’s brain was as clear as it could be as he threw open the window and had to confess that the visit of the woman with the soft hand had been a terrible reality. He observed by the dawning light that it was nearly four o’clock. He examined his clothes, saw that they had been disarranged, and then he went to the door, turned the handle softly, and looked out.
The landing was small and narrow, and two doors opened upon it besides that of Clifford’s room. A steep and very narrow wooden staircase led up to the top of the house, and looking up, Clifford could just discern that at the top there was one door on either side.
He went back into his room, dressed himself, and sat by the open window in a state of great agitation. Far from yielding at once to the apparently inevitable conclusion, Clifford fought against it with all his might. Quickly as his passion for the girl had sprung up, it was strong enough to make him ready to accept any hypothesis, however improbable, rather than accept the evidence of his own senses when that evidence was against her. He was ready to believe that there was in the house another woman with a hand as small, as soft, as smooth-skinned as the one he had held in his hand when he bade Nell good-night. And then the desperate improbability of this supposition struck him with the force of a blow. He remembered the stalwart, red-handed country wench who had been helping the landlord in the bar, and he was forced to admit that the hand which had taken his watch and purse was not hers. But mention had been made of “Old Nannie,” a personage whom he had not seen, and he told himself that this might be a nickname, and that the bearer of it might prove to be young enough and fair enough to be the owner of the thievish fingers.