“Well,” said Charlie thoughtfully, “that’s quite new to me. I had flattered myself that the Doctor was very well disposed towards me. This is quite a revelation?”
“Didn’t Maud ever tell you?”
“Not a word.”
“She feared, of course, to hurt your feelings. It was quite natural. She loves you.”
“If what we fear be true, you should put your words into the past tense, Max,” was his reply in a hard voice. Barclay knew that his friend loved the sweet-faced girl with the stray, unruly wisp of hair which fell always across her white brow and gave her such a piquante appearance. And if he loved her so well, was it possible that he could have been author of, or implicated, in a foul and secret crime?
Recollection of that dress-bodice with the ugly stain still wet upon it flashed upon him. Was it not in itself circumstantial evidence that some terrible crime had been committed?
The man before him denied all knowledge of the disappearance of his well-beloved, and yet Max, with his own eyes, had seen him slinking from the house!
Had he spoken the truth, or was he an ingenious liar?
Such was the problem which Max Barclay put to himself—a question which was the whole crux of the extraordinary situation. If what Rolfe had declared was the truth, then the mystery became an enigma beyond solution.
But if, on the other hand, he was now endeavouring to shield himself from the shadow of guilt upon him, then at least one fact was rendered more hideous than the rest.