“It is quite impossible,” calmly replied Mr. Carlyle. “The doors are double doors; did you notice that they were?”
Nevertheless, she left her chair and stood close to Mr. Carlyle, resting her hand upon the table. He rose, of course.
“Richard is here!”
“Richard!” repeated Mr. Carlyle. “At West Lynne!”
“He appeared at the house last night in disguise, and made signs to me from the grove of trees. You may imagine my alarm. He has been in London all this while, half starving, working—I feel ashamed to mention it to you—in a stable-yard. And, oh, Archibald! He says he is innocent.”
Mr. Carlyle made no reply to this. He probably had no faith in the assertion. “Sit down, Barbara,” he said drawing her chair closer.
Barbara sat down again, but her manner was hurried and nervous. “Is it quite sure that no stranger will be coming in? It would look so peculiar to see me here; but mamma was too unwell to come herself—or rather, she feared papa’s questioning, if he found out that she came.”
“Be at ease,” replied Mr. Carlyle; “this room is sacred from the intrusion of strangers. What of Richard?”
“He says that he was not in the cottage at the time the murder was committed; that the person who really did it was a man of the name of Thorn.”
“What Thorn?” asked Mr. Carlyle, suppressing all signs of incredulity.