“Am I under arrest, too?” asked the Colonel, in tranquil tones.
“No, sir. But we’ve got to watch the house.”
“And what have you got there?”
The policeman, by the dim light of the lamp in the passage, displayed his find in silence. In silence, also, the Colonel looked, and immediately withdrew into the room. The sergeant left the house and met Clifford on the little path leading to the gate. He jerked his head back in the direction of the house.
“Sorry for the old gentleman!” said he, in a low voice. “It’s about broke him up, has this. He’s moping there, all by himself.”
“I’ll go and sit with him, if he’ll have me,” said Clifford, who was remorseful, knowing that he had had suspicions of the father, and not of the daughter.
“Do, sir,” said the sergeant, who wanted a watch kept upon Miss Bostal’s father, and was quite willing that it should be a friendly one.
So Clifford, not without diffidence, entered the house, as the sergeant carried his bundle to the gig which was waiting for him at the old turnpike.
The Colonel heard the slow footsteps outside the dining-room door, and called out:
“Who’s that?”