Part 35 (1/2)

”I don't think,” she said, unconsciously drawing herself up and looking straight at him, ”you know what I have come to say, and I must ask you to listen for a moment.”

”I think I do know,” Stamfordham said sternly, and she saw he meant to go out.

”I have come to tell you,” she said, quickly standing between him and the door, ”that my husband was wrongfully accused of the thing that you believed he did.” Stamfordham shook his head: this was what he expected to hear. ”I know who did it, I have found out to-day,” and she grew more and more a.s.sured as she went on. Stamfordham started, then looked incredulous again. ”I have come to tell you who did it, that you may know my husband is innocent.” Then she became aware of Lady Adela, who, having at first been much annoyed at her brusque intrusion, was now suddenly roused to interest, even to sympathy. Rachel turned to her. ”I must say this,” she said. ”Don't you see, don't you understand, what it is to me?”

”Yes, yes, you must,” the other woman said, with a sudden impulse of help and sympathy. ”Go on,” and she went outside. Stamfordham felt a slight accession of annoyance as Lady Adela pa.s.sed out; he felt it was going to be very difficult for him to deal as cruelly as he was bound to do with the anxious, quivering wife before him. He stood silent and absolutely impenetrable. Rachel went on quickly in broken sentences.

”I didn't know about this at the time. I have been ill since. I could not remember. You brought some papers for my husband to copy, and he locked them up so that no one should see them, and while he went down to speak to you they were pulled out of his writing-table from outside, by somebody else who was there, and who showed them to Mr. Pateley. Mr.

Pateley came in and went out again. Frank didn't know he had been there.” Stamfordham stopped her.

”They were taken out by 'somebody,' you say; do you mean--in fact I must gather from your words--that it was--do you mean by yourself?”

”Oh no, no,” Rachel cried, as it dawned upon her what interpretation might be put upon her words. ”Oh no, not myself! I wish it had been, I wish it had!”

”You wish it had?” Stamfordham said, surprised. ”Who was it, then? Who was it?” he said again, in the tone of one who must have an answer. ”Who got the paper out and showed it to Pateley?”

Rachel forced herself to speak.

”It was--my father,” she said, ”Sir William Gore.” And with an immense effort she prevented herself from bursting into tears.

”Sir William Gore!” said Stamfordham, ”did _he_ do it?”

”Yes,” said Rachel; ”I only knew it to-day, and I am telling you to prove to you that it wasn't my husband.”

Stamfordham stood for a moment trying to recall Rendel's att.i.tude at the time, and then, as he did so, he made up his mind that Rendel must have known.

”But,” he said, after a moment, still somewhat perplexed, ”you say you didn't know about this?”

”No,” said Rachel, ”I didn't. My father,” and again her lips quivered and told Stamfordham what that father and his good name probably were to her, ”was taken very ill, and I had an accident at the time and did not know anything that had happened. Frank told me nothing. Then my father died, and I was ill, and we came here and I did not know it at all till my husband came in and told me”--and her eyes blazed at the thought--”told me what had happened to-day...” She stopped. Stamfordham felt a stab as he thought of it.

”But,” he said, ”did he know? Did he tell you then? Did he know that it was Sir William Gore?”

”Oh no, no,” Rachel said; ”it was Mr. Pateley, and he brought me here to tell you that you might know.” Then Stamfordham began to understand.

”Mrs. Rendel,” he said, with a change of voice and manner that made her heart leap within her. ”Where is your husband?”