how she could faint at a vague fear, and yet hear the terrible truth unmoved.
“You will know soon enough,” was Claire’s reply.
“But you seemed in such a state about poor Blaydes?”
“I was.”
“I made sure he must be the one you cared for.”
“He? Poor fellow! Never for an instant.”
“Then who is it, Claire? Daintree has told me the answer you were foolish enough to give him; and now I insist on knowing who it is!”
“You must not insist now; you will know soon enough,” said she again. And not another word.
Mr. Harding was nonplussed; there was some new mystery here, and until he should find its key he decided to discuss Claire no further with the suitor on whose success his heart was still set. Indeed, he saw little more of Daintree that day, but drove into the City after luncheon, and was not back for dinner. Hearing this, Claire dressed hastily, and braved the guest across a solemn board, protected from familiar converse by the continual presence of a man-servant behind either chair. Yet Daintree could not avoid the tragic topic.
“I fancy that Mr. Harding must be making inquiries at headquarters,” said he. “Have you seen an evening paper?”
“No.”
“I have the Globe. It gives a pretty full account.”
“Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet.”
“Not his name?”
“No.”
“Nor his appearance? Nor anything at all about him?”
