“I didn’t see you,” interrupted Lowndes, sharply, with another doubt.
“You did not look up,” replied the girl, with composure. “You ran away through the garden to the right. I dressed quickly, and ran downstairs and out by the back door to see what was the matter. When I got out you had scrambled up the bank and were talking to my uncle.”
Lowndes said nothing; there was nothing to say. But, although it is true that he had not given much attention, when he burst into the upper room, to anything but the window and the escaping figure, he felt convinced that if there had been a person in bed in the room, he should have seen her, or heard some cry, some word, to indicate her presence.
“Now you’ve heard another story. And, begging your pardon, I’d sooner take her word than yours.”
“But,” suggested Lowndes in a conciliatory tone, “do the two stories contradict each other? All this young lady says is that she did not see the woman pass through her room.”
“No, nor any one else, either,” burst out George Claris, as if his patience was at last exhausted. “An’ look here—I won’t stand no man coming down here to spy about, and taking fancies into his head, and breaking into the rooms of my house—not for nobody; and so, sir, you can just go upstairs and pack your portmanteau and clear out between this and breakfast-time. Not another bit nor drop will you be served with under my roof. And you may just tell the three young scoundrels that sent you that whatever they likes to call themselves, they’re no gentlemen. I—I know them, you see. I know you were put up to this by Jordan, King and Co.”
“Uncle! uncle! No; Mr. King never sent him. I will answer for that!”
And Nell’s face became suddenly crimson with a blush which betrayed her secret.
Lowndes was touched.
“You’re right,” he said to her, very simply. “Mr. King knew nothing about my coming.” He turned to Claris. “Let me have my bill,” he said, “I will go at once.”