Ourselves at the Luggernel Springs. Brent lying wounded, while I gave him water, and a lady bound up his wounds.
Can this be so? Am I not the victim of a fancy? Is this indeed my noble horse? Is he again coming forward to bear us along the trail of our lost friend.
I stared again at my mental image of the two drawings. I recalled again every word of my interview with Padiham.
The more I looked, the more confident I became. Short’s Cut-off had held such entire possession of me in the afternoon, that I could only observe with eyes, not with volition, could not value the treasure I was grasping ignorantly. But I had grasped it. This is Fulano! Except for him, I might doubt. Except for his presence, the other drawing of an old brick manor-house would be a commonplace circumstance.
“Now let me see,” I thought, pushing aside my letter to Short for a moment, “what are my facts?
“Mr. Clitheroe and his daughter have disappeared, and are probably in London.
“I have found—God be thanked!—a clew, perhaps a clew. Work by the lady’s hand.
“And where? In Padiham’s shop.
“Padiham is a Lancashire man. So is Mr. Clitheroe.
“Padiham has a horror of Mormons. Why was I so hurried as not to pursue the conversation, and discover what special cause he had for his disgust?