Smith stared at him. He passed his thin hand across his forehead, lifting the lank hair. “I don’t understand,” he said. Jack left his words to reach his comprehension without repeating them. “That can’t be so,” Smith said presently, “because Clive knew he had only to apply to me.”
“He had no address.”
“He could get it.”
“No. That is just what he could not do. Mr Smith,” said Jack abruptly, “from all I can hear there has been no fault whatever on your side, and you could have done nothing. Mr Trent has chosen to keep your whereabouts concealed, and to get things into his own hands. But the upshot is that Clive has been miserable, has tried to make a bolt for America, and that I came down here to-day on the strength of a clue which we drew out of your London landlady yesterday.”
“But the money is gone!” said Smith in a hoarse voice. “He must have done it only to give Clive a lesson—don’t you think so?”
“Perhaps,” Ibbetson said laconically.
“And he won’t deny that I gave it?”
“I think not. At any rate I shall know, and so will Clive, and—no, I don’t think he will deny.”
Smith sank back with a sigh of relief. Jack was standing gazing thoughtfully into the dark corners of the room, lit only by a single candle. “Do they look after you well, here?” he asked.
“Yes, fairly enough. I’ve nothing to complain of. Though I’ve thought it odd that no one should come to see me.”