“Jo-si-ah!” she said, turning to him quickly, and laying her hand upon his.
“I try to think Claire Denville a good girl.”
“I’m sure she is,” cried Mrs Barclay. “Oh, Josiah, why do you talk like that?”
“Because things look ugly, old lady, and I shall be very sorry if you’ve been deceived.”
“Oh, but, my dear,” panted Mrs Barclay, “I’m sure.”
“One can’t be sure of anything with a pretty well-flattered woman. You know what you said about that row at Denville’s, when Sir Harry Payne was found with Claire that night.”
“Yes: I said it was May, and I’m sure of it.”
“You’re not sure, old lady—you can’t be. Suppose it was Claire after all.”
“I say it was May. Claire Denville couldn’t do such a thing.”
“I don’t know. I hope not,” said Barclay. “I want to believe in her. Well, Joseph?”