“That I had the plans in the left, top pocket of my uniform when I reached your house; I felt to see if they were there as I came up the drive,” he answered doggedly. “Soon afterward, you slipped as we went down the steps into the garden and in clutching me your hand caught and pulled the pocket open. It was a deep pocket and the papers could not have fallen out.”
“So you concluded that I had stolen them!” Clare said in a cold, strained voice, though her face flushed crimson.
“What else could I think?”
Then, though she tried to hide the breakdown, Clare’s nerve gave way. She had forced the crisis in order to clear herself, but saw that she could not do so. Dick’s statement was convincing; the papers had been stolen while he was in their house, and she had a horrible suspicion that her father was the thief. It came with a shock, though she had already been tormented by a vague fear of the truth that she had resolutely refused to face. She remembered the men who were at the house on the eventful night. They were somewhat dissipated young sportsmen and not remarkable for intelligence. None of them was likely to take part in such a plot.
“You must understand what a serious thing you are saying,” she faltered, trying to doubt him and finding that she could not.
“I do,” he said, regarding her with gravely pitiful eyes. “Still, you rather forced it out of me. Perhaps this is a weak excuse, because I had meant to forget the matter.”
“But didn’t you want to clear yourself and get taken back?”
“No; I knew it was too late. I’d shown I couldn’t be trusted with an important job; and I’d made a fresh start here.”
His answer touched the girl, and after a quick half-ashamed glance, she thought she had misjudged him. It was not her physical charm that had made him willing to condone her offense, for he showed none of the bold admiration she had shrunk from in other men. Instead, he was compassionate and, she imagined, anxious to save her pain.
She did not answer and turning her head, vacantly watched the shore slide past. The mountains were growing blacker, trails of mist that looked like gauze gathered in the ravines, and specks of light began to pierce the gloom ahead. They marked Santa Brigida, and something must still be said before the launch reached port. It was painful that Brandon should take her guilt for granted, but she feared to declare her innocence.