“Well, you may, and welcome, if you don’t find that she’s left her room and got away by the window. Ah!” he stopped short suddenly in the middle of the cabbage-garden, through which they were walking, and pointed to a white figure which was stealing its way into the house: “Is that your niece, or is it not?” roared the young man excitedly, as he pointed with a shaking finger in the direction of the disappearing woman.
For answer George Claris sprang forward, and seized the girl’s wrist just as she reached the shelter of the doorway.
“Nell!” cried the man, in tones so hoarse, so terrible that they sounded like those of a stranger. “Tell me, lass, what were you doing out there?”
But the girl only stammered and shook, and he waited in vain for an answer.
CHAPTER VII.
If ever guilt was written on a human face, surely it was written on that of Nell Claris when, seized roughly by her uncle, she stood shaking and stammering in his grasp, just inside the back door of the inn.
So thought Jack Lowndes, the friend whom Otto Conybeare had sent down in the capacity of amateur detective, as he stood shivering, dripping, with chattering teeth and starting eyes, before her.
“What were you doing out there, lass? What were you doing out there at this time o’ night?” roared her uncle, with an earnestness which convinced Lowndes of his innocence of the attempt at theft.
“I—came out—to see—what was the matter!” stammered the girl, whose voice was weak and tremulous. “I—I—”
Her uncle stared fixedly at her, as if a doubt of her had begun to darken even his mind. It was in a different tone, almost apologetically, that he turned to the stranger. “Well, and that’s a reasonable answer enough, surely! For I’m sure by the noise you made, it might ha’ been the parish church afire!”