An exclamation, in which astonishment and sympathy were blended, escaped from Clifford’s lips. Colonel Bostal rose from his chair, and unlocking a cupboard in the corner of the room, took from it an old desk, which he unlocked; and taking from it a bundle of cuttings from old newspapers, put them into Clifford’s hands.
They all referred to cases of “kleptomania” which had come before the West End magistrates from twenty-three to twenty-five years before, in which a “ladylike young woman, of superior manner and address,” had been charged with shoplifting.
“They all refer to my daughter,” said the Colonel, quietly. “And in all we managed to get her off, on the plea that she had suffered from hysteria. And that was true.”
“Then she is not responsible for her actions?” suggested Clifford in a tone of relief.
The Colonel hesitated, and then said:
“Frankly, my own belief is that she is fully responsible. She is a highly intelligent woman, and her astuteness and cunning are unsurpassable. There is some moral twist in her nature which causes her to love the excitement of crime. That is my own opinion. I took her away from London, but wherever we went, she threatened to get herself and me into trouble, and at last I brought her here, where it seemed that she must be honest for want of opportunity to be anything else. And I thought, until a few weeks ago, that I had succeeded. I swear to you I never had a suspicion that she was mixed up with the thefts at the Blue Lion, until the inquest on young Stickels. Then, when I saw that it lay between her and poor little Nell Claris, I knew who was the—the culprit. But how could I confess it? My heart bled for the poor girl, but I knew the truth must come out, and I had not the courage to hasten its coming.”
For a long time there was silence in the little room. Then Clifford ventured to ask:
“Do you know where she has gone?”
The Colonel shook his head.
“All I know is that whatever she has done is the best possible thing for her own safety. I can trust her for that.”