"If you think best," and Paul hesitated.
"I do. Have no fear of me. Have I not learned to endure anything that can happen?"
"Poubalov loves you, Miss Hilman."
Clara blushed very faintly, looked straight into Paul's eyes for an instant, then off at the house-tops, and answered:
"I felt it. How did you find out?"
Amazed and relieved, Paul told her.
"I have made myself a spy," he concluded, "but I felt that the circumstances justified me."
"So I think, too," rejoined Clara. "Well, let us go on. I don't know at this moment how to act, but I cannot help thinking that this will bring matters to a crisis, and I hope, in spite of reason and fears, that it will end happily. I wonder where Poubalov got my photograph."
Then she remembered that when the reporter, Shaughnessey, had returned her photograph, it had been placed for the moment upon the mantel in the drawing-room. The next day she had looked for it, and, not finding it at once, had supposed that Louise or a servant had put it away. In the stress of events she had thought no more about it; but Poubalov's call and bareheaded flight had occurred after the return of the photograph, and the natural and satisfactory explanation, therefore, was that he had stolen it.
"There is one more thing," added Paul as they walked along, "and I suppose it shows that in order to circumvent this man one must have sleepless eyes and untiring vigilance. As soon as Poubalov went to bed last night, I hurried out and got supper. It didn't take me long, for I was anxious to get to sleep, so that I might get up early enough this morning to keep track of him. I rose before six, and took a preliminary peep through my nail hole. Poubalov had gone, and up to just now, when I left, had not returned."