“Very ill, dear,” said Claire sadly. “Here?”
“Yes, Mrs Barclay insisted upon her being brought, so that we could be together.”
“God bless her,” said Fred softly. Then, after a pause—“I’ve seen the old man.”
“And you are friends, Fred?”
He shook his head, and sat staring down at the carpet. “But you tried to be, dear?”
“Yes; tried hard. I’ve been. I’ve done my duty—for once,” he said with a strange laugh.
He did not speak again for a few minutes, and Claire sat holding his hand, looking at him doubtingly, his manner was so strange.
“You think I’ve been drinking,” he cried fiercely. “Give a dog a bad name, and then hang him. I haven’t touched a drop to-day.”
He changed his manner to her directly, and his voice was low and tender as he took her to his breast and kissed her.
“Poor little Clairy,” he said; “you’ve had a rough time. Never mind; brighter days coming. The old man will be found innocent.”