"It is impossible, Emma. Steal my pencil!—Mr. Henry! My dear, you don't know what you are saying."
"Papa, I am very sorry to say it. You must judge for yourself; but I don't see how it can have been otherwise. You have not been listening to me."
"Begin again. Surprise took my listening faculties away."
She untied her bonnet, pushed it off her head, and began again; telling him of Trace's back suspicions and their foundation; of her recent discovery of the pencil, and what passed. "Is there any room to doubt, papa?"
"Stay a moment, Emma: why did you not inform me of this doubt of Mr. Henry at the time?"
"Because I thought, as you do now, that it was so very unlikely; and also—I feared—that some one altogether different might have taken it."
"Who?"
"Forgive me, papa; I know how you dislike the name to be mentioned—Tom."
Dr. Brabazon frowned. "How could you possibly have suspected him when he was not near the place? That comes of letting your thoughts run upon him always. You should have told me this about Mr. Henry."
She sat with her finger on her cheek, looking out apparently at the boys in the playground, and asking herself whether to tell the whole now—that Tom was near the place the evening of the loss. But to what end? To hear of his being near them, always destroyed her father's rest; and the suspicion was now quite removed from him.