"Very likely. When I was arranging the bedclothes of my murdered friend, the blood could easily have got on to the cuffs. So this was why Prudence gave up your brother; and I thought she did so because I wished it." "Why did you wish it, Mr. Clarke? You were pleased, once." "Yes," said the vicar, sadly, "for then I did not know what I know now." "About Frank?" "Never mention his name--never speak of him. I am not master of myself when I think--I think--" Mr. Clarke clutched his scanty locks with both hands and rushed suddenly from the room. Clarice did not wish to call him back, since she knew all that she wished to know. Clarke was innocent, and he had not set eyes upon her brother. So far Ferdy was safe. But who could have written that anonymous letter? Until the author of that was discovered, Clarice knew that she would have no peace of mind, as always she would be apprehensive lest Ferdy should be arrested. All that afternoon Clarice puzzled over what was best to be done, and remained in her room with an aching head. Her feigned illness was rapidly turning to a real one, so sick did she feel with worry and anxiety. Then she received a surprise. Anthony's card was brought up, and Mrs. Rebson said that he was waiting for her in the drawing-room. "Why is he here?" Clarice asked herself; then, hastily arranging her attire, she went down, filled with nervous fears. "Clarice," said Anthony, abruptly, and coming forward with outstretched hands. "I have made a discovery--I must tell you at once what I have found out in Whitechapel." "Have you been there? What about Ferdy?" "I left him in charge of another fellow. He's still at Gattlinsands. Wait, I'll explain later. But my news. The consumptive chap attended by Jerce--one of the Purple Fern murderers, was--who do you think?--none other than Frank Clarke, the vicar's son." CHAPTER XXII THE ANONYMOUS LETTER The announcement of Ackworth was so terrible, and so unexpected, that Clarice could scarcely believe her ears. She knew that Frank Clarke was a rascal and extravagant, that he was selfish and dishonourable, but it never entered her head that he would turn out to be a cold-blooded murderer. No wonder the vicar, who had forgiven much to his prodigal son, had stopped short of finally pardoning such an unmitigated scoundrel. "He must have known what Frank was," said: Clarice, involuntarily. "Who must have known?" asked Anthony, quickly. "Mr. Clarke. He was here a short time ago, and would not let me mention his son's name. He must know. Yes," Clarice struck her hands together, "this was why he refused to let Prudence marry Ferdy." "I thought that it was Prudence herself who refused to marry Ferdy." "Yes, but for another reason. I told you that reason--the accusation of Mr. Clarke by Zara Dumps." "I remember." Anthony ruffled his hair in sore perplexity. "What have you done about that?" "I have seen Zara." "You have seen that girl? When? Where?"