"A strong clew ... they are following it up." The words sounded ominous. And yet—what could the clew be? Mr. Higgins, continuing his scathing denunciation of the police, found that he had lost the attention of his audience. Alf was raising enquiring eyebrows in Bill's direction, while Bill was shaking his head. He had no idea what the "clew"—if such existed—might be. The elder Higgins regarded this pantomime with growing indignation for a moment.
"It don't seem to matter to you much what 'appens," he said coldly at last. "If I was out at the front, an' came back an' found the country in this kind o' state, I'd ... I'd...." His vocabulary suddenly proved unequal to the strain placed upon it, and he tailed off into silence.
"I don't believe they was spies at all," said Alf doggedly.
"Not spies?" His father's voice quivered with righteous indignation. "Well, what about this 'ere parson, then?—tell me that."
Alf, who had forgotten Mr. Davies' very existence, remembered suddenly, that in the hurry of departure he had left that unfortunate clergyman and his wife still laboring under the disability so ruthlessly imposed upon them. His conscience smote him.
"Why," he asked uneasily, "what's wrong with 'im? 'As 'e being gettin' into trouble?"
"No, but 'e blinkin' well ought to!"
"What's 'e done?"
"It's what 'e 'asn't done as is the matter. 'E knows something about this 'ere business. 'E went up to the 'ouse. But 'e won't say a word. Won't tell the police nothing. Nobody can't get 'im to speak."
"But 'e ain't in no trouble, is 'e?" persisted Alf.