"Do you think Michael suspects either me or you, Digby?"
"No," he replied. "He knows we didn't do it."
"Do you think he suspects Claudia then?"
"Er--no--of course not," he answered.
"Then?"
"He only knows that one of us three did do it," he replied, and went out, leaving me staring at the door.
I lay down again to think.
§9.
Dinner that night was an extraordinary meal, at which only Isobel, Claudia, Augustus, and I appeared.
Lady Brandon, said Burdon, was dining in her own room; his Reverence the Chaplain was, by Dr. Warrender's orders, remaining in bed; Mr. Michael was not in his room when David took up his hot water; and Mr. Digby had been seen going down the drive soon after tea.
"Shocking bad form, I call it--Michael and Digby going out like this--after what Aunt said," remarked Augustus as the service-door swung to, when the servants went out for the coffee.
"You're an authority on good form, of course," I said.
"Where has Beau gone?" asked Claudia.
"He didn't tell me," I replied.
"Don't suppose he told anybody," sneered Augustus.
"Come into the drawing-room soon," said Isobel, as I held the dining-room door open for the girls to go out.
"I'm coming now," I replied. "As soon as I have had some coffee."
I did not want a tête-à-tête with Augustus, and I was more than a little disturbed in mind as to the meaning of Digby's absence.
What could be the reason of his defiance of Aunt Patricia's prohibition of our leaving the house? Was it possible that he knew more than he had told me?
Perhaps he had gone to the village telegraph-office to try to get into communication with Michael at one of the several places to which he might have gone.
It would be something important that would make him risk giving Aunt Patricia cause to think that he had been guilty of an ungentlemanly disobedience to her request.
I drank my coffee in silence, and in silence departed from the room. I could not forgive Gussie for being innocent and forcing Michael to suspect Claudia, Digby, or me; me to suspect Claudia, Digby, or Michael; and Digby to suspect Claudia, Michael, or me.
Most unjust of me, but most human, I fear.
In the drawing-room Isobel was at the piano, playing softly to herself, and Claudia sat staring into the fire.
I strolled over to the huge piano and sat down near it.
"Where can Michael be?" said Claudia.
"And Digby," added Isobel.
"I don't know," said I.
"Really and truly?" asked Claudia.
"Yes," said I. "I honestly have not the faintest idea as to where either of them is."
"I wish they'd come in," said Isobel.
"Oh, I can't bear this room," cried Claudia suddenly, and springing up, went out. As I opened the door for her, I fancied I caught a glimpse of tears on her half-averted face, though I was not prying.
As I closed the door, Isobel rose from the piano and came towards me. She looked very lovely I thought, with her misty blue eyes, misty golden hair, as fine as floss-silk, and her sweet expression. How gentle and dear she was!
"Johnny," she said, laying her hands on my chest and looking up into my eyes, "may I ask you a silly question? Just once and for all? I know the answer, but I want to hear you say it."
"Certainly, dear," said I.
"You won't be angry, Johnny?"
"Have I ever been angry with you, Isobel? Could I be?" I asked.
She looked into my eyes steadily for a few moments.
"Did you take the 'Blue Water,' John?" she asked.
"No, my dear, I did not," I replied, and drew her to me. And then Isobel threw her arms round my neck and I kissed her on the lips.
She burst into tears, and lifting her up in my arms, I carried her to a sofa and sat hugging her to my breast and covering her face with kisses. It had suddenly come upon me that I loved her--that I had always loved her. But hitherto it had been as a charming darling playmate and companion, and now it was as a woman.
If this knowledge between us were a result of the theft of the "Blue Water," I was glad it had been stolen.
"Darling! Darling! Darling!" I whispered as I kissed her. "Do you love me, darling Isobel?" I asked, and, for reply, she smiled starrily through her tears, put her arms round me, and pressed her lips to mine.
I thought my heart was stopping.
"Love you, dearest?" she asked. "You are just my life. I have loved everything you have said or done, since I was a baby!"
"Don't cry," I said, ashamed of my inarticulate inadequacy.
"I'm crying for joy," she sobbed. "Now you have told me you didn't do it, I know you didn't."
"What made you think I did?" I asked.
"I didn't think so," she replied with feminine logic; "only it was you who were against the table, John; it was you whom Michael caught; and I saw you go down in the night--to put it back, as I thought."
"Saw me?" I asked, in surprise.
"Yes, dear. I was awake and saw a light go by my door. It shone underneath it. And I came out and looked over the banisters."
"I went to see if the wretched thing had come back," I said. "And it was rather I who caught Michael than Michael who caught me, when you turned the lights out. We were both expecting to catch Gussie, and caught each other."
"And, oh, I have been so wretchedly unhappy," she went on, "thinking appearances were so against you, and yet knowing I was allowing Gussie to remain under suspicion when I knew it wasn't he. . . . But when it seemed the thing was actually stolen, I couldn't keep quiet any longer. It was bad enough when it was only a practical joke, as we thought. . . . And then I seemed to be helping to bring suspicion towards you when I cleared Gussie. . . ."
She wiped away a tear.
"I don't care now," she smiled. "Nothing on earth matters. So long as you love me--I don't see how I can have a care in the world. . . . You're sure, darling?"
I endeavoured to express myself without the use of halting and unfluent speech.
"When did you first love me?" asked my sweet and beautiful darling, when I released her.
"I
