We decided on telegraphing to the hotel. I was writing the message, and Naomi was looking over my shoulder, when we were startled by a strange voice speaking close behind us.
“Oh! that’s his address, is it?” said the voice. “We wanted his address rather badly.”
The speaker was a stranger to me. Naomi recognized him as one of the neighbors.
“What do you want his address for?” she asked, sharply.
“I guess we’ve found the mortal remains of John Jago, miss,” the man replied. “We have got Silas already, and we want Ambrose too, on suspicion of murder.”
“It’s a lie!” cried Naomi, furiously—“a wicked lie!”
The man turned to me.
“Take her into the next room, mister,” he said, “and let her see for herself.”
We went together into the next room.
In one corner, sitting by her father, and holding his hand, we saw stern and stony Miss Meadowcroft weeping silently. Opposite to them, crouched on the window-seat, his eyes wandering, his hands hanging helpless, we next discovered Silas Meadowcroft, plainly self-betrayed as a panic-stricken man. A few of the persons who had been engaged in the search were seated near, watching him. The mass of the strangers present stood congregated round a table in the middle of the room They drew aside as I approached with Naomi and allowed us to have a clear view of certain objects placed on the table.