"Cyril!"
She nodded her head. "You stood it out to me that you did not come in on Saturday evening and go out again between ten and eleven——"
"I did not," interrupted Herbert. "I told you truth, but you would not believe me."
"But this cloak went out. And it was turned the plaid side outwards, and your cap was on, tied down at the ears. Naturally I thought it was you. It must have been Cyril! Do you comprehend?"
"No, I don't," said Herbert. "How mysteriously you are speaking!"
"It must have been Cyril who robbed Mr. Ashley."
"Mademoiselle!" interrupted Herbert indignantly.
"Ecoutez, mon ami. He was blanched as white as a mouchoir, while your father spoke of it at dinner—did you see that he could not eat? 'You look guilty, Monsieur Cyril,' I said to myself, not really thinking him to be so. But be persuaded it was no other. He must have taken the paper-money—or what you call it—and come home here for your cloak and cap to wear, while he changed it for gold, thinking it would fall on that other one who wears the cloak; that William Hall——I cannot say the name; c'est trop dur pour les lèvres. It is Cyril, and no other. He has turned afraid now, and has torn the lining out."
Herbert could make no rejoinder at first, partly in dismay, partly in astonishment. "It cannot have been Cyril!" he reiterated.
"I say it is Cyril," persisted the young lady. "I saw him creep up the stairs after dinner, with a candle and your mother's great scissors in his hand. He did not see me. I was in the dark, looking out of my room. Depend he was going to do it then."