Clyne could not finish the sentence. He turned away, and with a trembling hand snuffed a candle—that his face might be hidden.
The chaplain shook his head.
“No, no!” he said. “No!”
“But it is—it’s bad news?”
“Yes. She’s—she’s gone! She’s disappeared!”
Clyne dropped the snuffers on the table.
“Gone?” he muttered. “Who? Miss Damer?”
“Yes. She left the house this afternoon, and has not returned. It was my fault! My fault!” poor Mr. Sutton continued, in a tone of the deepest abasement. And with his face hidden he bowed himself to and fro like a man in pain. “They asked me to follow her, and I would not! I would not—out of pride!”
“And she has not returned?” Clyne asked, in an odd tone.
“She has not returned—God forgive me!”