"It may be pure coincidence," he mused as he walked slowly in a very
troubled and doubtful mood. "But if so, it's a very queer one, and
if it isn't, it seems to me Mr. John Clive might as well put his
head in a lion's jaws as pay visits at Bittermeads. But of course
he can't have the least suspicion of the truth--if it is the truth.
If I hadn't lost my temper like a fool when he whacked out at me
like that I might have been able to warn him, or find out something
useful perhaps. And his father killed recently in an accident--is
that a coincidence, too, I wonder?"
He passed his hand across his forehead on which a light sweat stood,
though he was not a man easily affected, for he had seen and endured
many things.
His mind was very full of strange and troubled thoughts as at last
he came back to Bittermeads, where, leaning with his elbows on the
garden gate, he stood for a long time, watching the dark and silent
house and thinking of that scene of which he had been a spectator
when John Clive and the girl had stood together on the veranda in
the light of the gas from the hall and had bidden each other good
night.
"It seems," he mused, "as though the last that was seen of poor
Charley must have been just like that. It was just such a dark
night as this when Simpson saw him. He was standing on that
veranda when Simpson recognized him by the light of the gas behind,
and a girl was bidding him good night--a very pretty girl, too,
Simpson said.
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