“Yes,” cried Cora. “I remember now, he brought them to us. He said he dredged them up in his shrimp net off the end of the pier.”
“That’s what he told me too, I remember,” said Barclay.
“And he thought they were mine,” said Cora. “He brought them with the carriage clock and my bag, but, of course, they were not mine.”
Fisherman Dick—her brother—dredged up off the end of the pier! It was no elucidation of the mystery, Claire felt, as she stood there trembling.
“Lady Teigne’s jewels?” said Barclay, turning them over, and speaking in his blunt way. “Then whoever killed the poor old woman found out that these things were good for nothing, and threw them into the sea.”
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” sighed Mrs Barclay. “Don’t, pray don’t faint.”
Poor Claire did not hear her, for as she realised that here was perhaps a fresh link of evidence against her father, a link whose fitting she did not see, her brain reeled and she would have fallen had not Cora been close at hand.
“Can I do anything?” said Barclay in his abrupt way.
“Yes,” cried Mrs Barclay sharply. “Go. Can’t you see we must cut her laces?”
“Humph!” ejaculated Barclay thoughtfully; “Lady Teigne’s jewels! I never thought of that. No wonder. It was diamonds missing—not paste thrown off the pier.”