“Ring and ask my Jo-si-ah to come up and talk this over. We don’t deal in stolen goods.”
“No; don’t, don’t.”
“But we must find out where he bought the things.”
“No, no! I couldn’t bear to know,” faltered Claire. “No, Mrs Barclay, pray don’t ask.”
“Oh, my poor darling! Catch her, Cora, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay, as Claire staggered back, half fainting, and was helped to the sofa, and fanned and recovered with smelling-salts.
She was just getting rid of the deadly hue when the door opened, and Barclay came in with a bluff “How do, ladies? Why, hallo! what’s the matter?”
“Hush! she’s coming round,” said Mrs Barclay.
“That’s better. Why, what are you doing with these things?”
“I had them out, dear, to check off and brush a little. Claire was helping me.”
“Mr Barclay,” said Claire, rising, and taking a step or two to the table, and speaking with a forced decision that startled her hearers, “I must speak. I must know. Tell me—”