Meanwhile Cecil paced gravely up and down the arrival platform at Charing Cross. She, too, had been cheered by their interview, but, nevertheless, the baffling mystery haunted her continually, and in vain she racked her mind for any solution of the affair. Perhaps the anxiety had already left its traces on her face, for Roy at once noticed a change in her. “Why, Cecil, what has come over you? You are not looking well,” he said, as they got into a hansom and set off on their long drive. “Father has not been well,” she said, in explanation. “And I think we have all been rather upset by something that happened on Monday afternoon in the shop.” Then she told him exactly what had passed, and waited hopefully for his comments on the story. He knitted his brows in perplexity. “I wish I had been at home,” he said. “If only James Horner had not gone ferreting into it all this would never have happened. Frithiof would have discovered his mistake, and all would have been well.” “But you don’t imagine that Frithiof put the note in his pocket?” said Cecil, her heart sinking down in deep disappointment. “Why, who else could have put it there? Of course he must have done it in absence of mind. Probably the excitement and strain of that unlucky afternoon at Britling Gap affected his brain in some way.” “I cannot think that,” she said, in a low voice. “And, even if it were so, that is the last sort of thing he would do.” “But that is just the way when people’s brains are affected, they do the most unnatural things; it is a known fact that young innocent girls will often in delirium use the most horrible language such as in real life they cannot possibly have heard. Your honest man is quite likely under the circumstances to become a thief. Is not this the view that my father takes?” “Yes,” said Cecil. “But somehow—I thought—I hoped—that you would have trusted him.” “It doesn’t in the least affect my opinion of his character. He was simply not himself when he did it. But one can’t doubt such evidence as that. The thing was missed from the till and found pinned into his pocket; how can any reasonable being doubt that he himself put it there?” “It may be unreasonable to refuse to believe it—I cannot help that,” said Cecil. “But how can it possibly be explained on any other supposition?” he urged, a little impatiently. “I don’t know,” said Cecil; “at present it is a mystery. But I am as sure that he did not put it there as that I did not put it there.” “Women believe what they wish to believe, and utterly disregard logic,” said Roy. “It is not only women who believe in him. Carlo Donati has gone most carefully into every detail, and he believes in him.” “Then I wish he would give me his recipe,” said Roy, with a sigh. “I am but a matter-of-fact, prosaic man of business, and cannot make myself believe that black is white, however much I wish it. Have you seen Miss Falck? Is she very much troubled about it?”