And while he
waited, perplexed, Claire made a false step.
The thing had been so close to the top of her mind ever since she
had come to the knowledge of it that it had been hard for her to
keep it down. Now she could keep it down no longer.
'How wonderful about old Mr Nutcombe, Bill!' she said.
A vast relief rolled over Bill. Despite his instinct, he had been
wavering. But now he understood. He had found the clue.
'You got my letter, then?'
'Yes; it was forwarded on from the theatre. I got it to-night.'
Too late she realized what she had said and the construction that
an intelligent man would put on it. Then she reflected that Bill
was not an intelligent man. She shot a swift glance at him. To all
appearances he had suspected nothing.
'It went all over the place,' she hurried on. 'The people at the
Portsmouth theatre sent it to the London office, who sent it home,
and mother mailed it on to me.'
'I see.'
There was a silence. Claire drew a step nearer.
'Bill!' she said softly.
Bill shut his eyes. The moment had come which he had dreaded. Not
even the thought that she was crooked, that she had been playing
with him, could make it any better. She was a woman and he was a
man. That was all that mattered, and nothing could alter it.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
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