Barbara had scarcely gone before the door of the consulting-room was opened, and Clara came in. Clara wore her old gray bonnet and cloak, her nurse’s dress.
Tarbot, who was standing by the mantelpiece with an excited look in his eyes and his lips still trembling, turned when she entered.
“Leave me,” he said. “I cannot speak to you at present. Go away.”
“I won’t keep you long,” answered Clara very gently. She was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Try as she would, she could not restrain it. Her face became crimson, and her features worked. She struggled hard with this convulsion of nature. Presently it passed, but not until the handkerchief which she had pressed to her lips was stained with blood.
Tarbot stood a few feet away regarding her, and his face wore a malignant scowl. Clara slipped her handkerchief into her pocket, and sat down on the nearest chair, panting as she did so.
“You are ill,” said Tarbot. “When you have done your business here as witness at the trial, you had better go to Algiers for the winter.”
“We will leave that matter for the present,” said Clara. “I wish to tell you now that I know exactly what you have done.”
“What I have done?”
“Yes. You have just had an interview with Lady Pelham.”
“What is that to you?”