“Indeed, we are all delighted,” replied Dunn cordially, “though, of course, I never could bring myself to believe him guilty of crime.”
“Well, on the strength of the judgment of yourself and, I must confess, of this young person here, I made my decision.”
“Well,” cried Miss Brodie, “I gave you my opinion because it was my opinion, but I confess at times I had my own doubts—”
Here she paused abruptly, arrested by the look on young Rob's face; it was a look of surprise, grief, and horror.
“That is to say,” continued Miss Brodie hastily, answering the look, and recognising that her high place in Rob's regard was in peril, “the whole thing was a mystery—was impossible to solve—I mean,” she continued, stumbling along, “his own attitude was so very uncertain and so unsatisfactory—if he had only been able to say clearly 'I am not guilty' it would have been different—I mean—of course, I don't believe him guilty. Don't look at me like that, Rob! I won't have it! But was it not clever of that dear Mr. Rae to extract that letter from the wretched Potts?”
“There's the train!” cried Dunn. “Here, Rob, you stay here with me! Where has the young rascal gone!”
“Look! Oh, look!” cried Miss Brodie, clutching at Dunn's arm, her eyes wide with terror. There before their horrified eyes was young Rob, hanging on to the window, out of which his friend Cameron was leaning, and racing madly with the swiftly moving train, in momentary danger of being dragged under its wheels. With a cry, Dunn rushed forward.
“Merciful heavens!” cried Miss Brodie. “Oh! he is gone!”
A porter, standing with his back towards the racing boy, had knocked his feet from under him. But as he fell, a strong hand grabbed him, and dragged him to safety through the window.
Pale and shaking, the three friends waited for the car door to be opened, and as Rob issued in triumphant possession of his friend, Miss Brodie rushed at him and, seizing him in her strong grasp, cried: