It was a disagreeable business, that of making known his loss to George Claris. But it had to be done, and as soon as he had had his breakfast Clifford followed the landlord to the front of the house, where he was taking down the shutters, and told him he had something unpleasant to relate to him.
The young man at once perceived, by a sudden change to sullen expectancy in the landlord’s manner, that he was not wholly unprepared for the sort of story to which he was listening. He heard with attention the whole story, and only looked up when Clifford described how he had actually touched the hand as it was withdrawn from under his pillow.
“You touched it, you say?” said George Claris, sharply. “Then why on earth didn’t you hold on and shout?”
And defiantly, incredulously, the man, with his red, honest face full of sullen anger, turned to face his visitor.
Clifford hesitated. He had said nothing about the sort of hand it was, and he began to feel that he would rather lose all chance of ever seeing watch or money again than formulate, however euphemistically, the fearful accusation.
“It was—it was a shock, you know!” he stammered, meekly. “The hand was snatched away as soon as I felt it.”
“Well,” grumbled Claris, with apparent suspicion on his side, “it seems to me a strange thing that a man should feel a thing like that without calling out! It’s the first thing a man would do as wasn’t quite a born fool, to jump up an’ make for the feller.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Clifford, sharply.
George Claris looked at him with a deepening frown. “What do you mean, sir?”
“That I am not sure—that I’m very far from sure—that the intruder was a man.”