Allis went to the tea table by her father's side, fearing to get beyond his hearing; she dreaded her mother's questioning eyes. What could be said in the accused man's defense, or in her own? Nothing; she could only wait.
A square old-fashioned wooden clock on the mantelpiece of the sitting room had just droned off seven mellow hours, when the faint echo of its music was drowned by the crunch of gravel; there was the quick step of somebody coming up the drive; then the wooden steps gave hollow notice. The visitor's advent was announced again by the brass knocker on the front door.
“I'll go,” said Allis, as her mother rose. The girl knew who it was that knocked, not because of any sane reason; she simply knew it was Mortimer.
When she opened the door he stepped back hesitatingly. Was he not a criminal—was he not about to leave his position because of theft?
“Come in,” she said, quietly; “I am glad you have come.”
“Shall I? I just want to speak to you for a minute. I said I would come. But I can't see anybody—just you, alone.”
“I understand,” she answered. “Come inside.”
“I am going away,” he began; “I can't stand it here.”
“You have done nothing—nothing to clear yourself?”
“Nothing.”