Clarice nodded. "And I expect the police came down and told Mr. Clarke about the discovery. Poor man, no wonder he suffers so terribly, and will not allow his son's name to be mentioned. That miserable Frank--and yet I remember him a handsome, bright young man." "He was a bad lot," said Ackworth, emphatically. "I scarcely blame a man for striking a blow in hot blood, but to murder in such cold-blooded ways as those adopted by the Purple Fern gang is too terrible to think of. And now that we know Frank Clarke was an assassin, it would seem as if the instinct to murder was hereditary." "No," said Clarice, quickly. "You must not think so badly of the vicar, Anthony. He is innocent." And she related to her lover all that Mr. Clarke had explained to her. "Humph!" said Ackworth, when she ended, "that's a very plausible tale, but we have only the vicar's word for its truth. And it is to his interest to exonerate himself. His son was connected with Osip, so Clarke himself, through Frank, may be connected also with that blackguard. I wish he could be found--Osip, I mean. I wonder with such a personality he has not been spotted." "I saw him," said Clarice, unexpectedly. "You?" Anthony rose, with a startled gesture. "Yes," she said, faintly, "at the Mascot Music Hall." The young man looked at her anxiously. "Clarice," he said, taking her cold hand, "you look pale. Mrs. Rebson said something about your having influenza; yet you were all right when I saw you last." Clarice nodded. "I might say that I caught cold, as you were afraid I should do, when we were in the porch. But I can't say that, because it is not true. I am quite well." "You don't look it." "I have not the influenza, I mean," she corrected; "I pretended to be ill, so that I might carry out my scheme." "What scheme?" "The one I had in my mind, when I asked you to trust me. Anthony, I want you to tell me. Do you trust me still?" "Of course I do." He laid his hand caressingly on her head, "don't be afraid that I'll blame you in any--why, Clarice!" He might well utter her name in an astonished tone, for the hair, so lightly pinned on her head, came off, and the plaits remained in his hand. There she sat, with her head cropped like a man's, and a pale smile on her face. "I intended to tell you," said she, quietly, "but it is just as well that you have found out in this way." "Found out what? Why have you cut off your beautiful hair?" "Don't you think that I look rather like Ferdy?" "Very. But I don't want you to look like Ferdy. I prefer you as you are, my dear." "My dear," she echoed, "does that mean forgiveness?" "For what?" Anthony looked more puzzled than ever. "For my masquerade. I cut off my hair. I dressed in a suit of Ferdy's clothes. I went to London as Ferdy, and stopped at his favourite hotel. Also I went to the Mascot Music Hall as Ferdy, and to Zara Dumps' flat as Ferdy, and learned a great deal."