"I can't imagine where he got the money, but he had it with him, in cash. Vixley said so."
"How long ago was that?"
"Two weeks ago, about."
Clytie reflected. "I saw Frank on the platform at Stockton, two weeks ago. I wonder—"
"Yes, it was the day after he got back, I remember now."
"Oh!" Clytie's face lightened as if another person had come into the room. She looked away, as if to greet an unseen visitor. Her hand was raised delicately. "I see." Her voice came suddenly, definitely. Then she stared hard at Fancy. "Oh, Fancy, I'm almost frightened at it! I don't dare to believe it. Oh, if I've made a mistake in suspecting him. If I've accused him to myself unjustly, how can I ever bear it! But I saw those notes—"
"And you didn't ask him to explain them?" Fancy spoke very slowly. She did not accuse, she only wondered.
"No." Clytie's tone had dropped low, and she went on, fluttering hurriedly. "I simply went away. Oh, think of it—it was as melodramatic as a play—that's the way women do on the stage, isn't it? But you see, I did know awful things about him. Fancy—he had told me, and I suspected more. There was something in the notes about my present to father, and his birthday had only just passed. That proved to me that Frank's notes had been made recently, I thought."
Fancy looked at her with a quizzical expression. "I knew a fellow once who used to call me a marmoset. I guess that's what you are, you poor dear! Why, Frank told me about your binding a book for your father the day he first came here. You must have spoken of it then."
"I did!" Clytie fairly threw out. "I remember it now! And that was before—before he really knew me, wasn't it! Oh, what shall I do, Fancy?" Her look was, for the moment, as helpless as a child's.