She broke down completely and burst into tears. Clifford was at least as unhappy as she, and there was moisture in his own eyes as he tried in vain to comfort her. He did succeed at last, however, in making her confess that she had never believed that he had any share in the sending from town of the amateur detective, Jack Lowndes. As for the fresh arrival which Clifford told her to expect she shrugged her shoulders about it when she had grown a little calmer.
“Let them send him,” she said, recklessly. “I shall not even advise my uncle to refuse to let him stay, even if I guessed who he is. It must all be found out some day, and the harder they try, the sooner it will all be over.”
As she was now quite calm and dry-eyed, Clifford made one more attempt to get at her own real views of the mystery. She had grown kinder to him, and had acquitted him of all blame. For her own sake he must make use of the opportunity.
And again when he put his question, there came into the girl’s face that curious look, as if a vague, haunting memory had disturbed her mind.
“I tell you solemnly, I have no more idea than you have yourself,” said she. “I will confess now that I had a sort of horrible sort of half-idea before—”
“And you will not tell me what that sort of half-idea was?” interrupted Clifford, eagerly.
“No,” answered Nell, firmly.
“And now?” pursued Clifford.
“Now I have no more idea who did it than you have yourself. At first I tried to think that this Mr. Lowndes went to sleep with his head full of thoughts of robbery, and that he dreamed all that long story that he told us. But the more I thought about his manner of telling us, the more I could not help believing that it was not a dream, after all. And yet—”
“You saw no one go through your room but him?”