“No,” he mildly said.  “What I thought of doing was to ask Mr. Carlyle for the loan of a few shillings, and then I can get a bed.  I know a place where I shall be in safety, two or three miles from here.”

“Richard, I would not turn a dog out to go two or three miles on such a night as this,” impulsively uttered Mr. Carlyle.  “You must stop here.”

“Indeed I don’t see how he is to get up to a bedroom, or how a room is to be made ready for him, for the matter of that, without betraying his presence to the servants,” snapped Miss Carlyle.  And poor Richard laid his aching head upon his hands.

But now Miss Carlyle’s manner was more in fault than her heart.  Will it be believed that, before speaking the above ungracious words, before Mr. Carlyle had touched upon the subject, she had been casting about in her busy mind for the best plan of keeping Richard—­how it could be accomplished.

“One thing is certain,” she resumed, “that it will be impossible for you to sleep here without its being known to Joyce.  And I suppose you and Joyce are upon the friendly terms of drawing daggers, for she believes you were the murderer of her father.”

“Let me disabuse her,” interrupted Richard, his pale lips working as he started up.  “Allow me to see her and convince her, Mr. Carlyle.  Why did you not tell Joyce better?”

“There’s that small room at the back of mine,” said Miss Carlyle, returning to the practical part of the subject.  “He might sleep there.  But Joyce must be taken in confidence.”

“Joyce had better come in,” said Mr. Carlyle.  “I will say a word to her first.”

He unlocked the door and quitted the room.  Miss Carlyle as jealously locked it again; called to Joyce and beckoned her into the adjoining apartment.  He knew that Joyce’s belief in the guilt of Richard Hare was confirmed and strong, but he must uproot that belief if Richard was to be lodged in his house that night.

“Joyce,” he began, “you remember how thoroughly imbued with the persuasion you were, that Afy went off with Richard Hare, and was living with him.  I several times expressed my doubts upon the point.  The fact was, I had positive information that she was not with him, and never had been, though I considered it expedient to keep my information to myself.  You are convinced now that she was not with him?”

“Of course I am, sir.”

“Well, you see, Joyce, that my opinion would have been worth listening to.  Now I am going to shake your belief upon another point, and if I assure you that I have equally good grounds for doing so, you will believe me?”

“I am quite certain, sir, that you would state nothing but what was true, and I know that your judgment is sound,” was Joyce’s answer.

“Then I must tell you that I do not believe it was Richard Hare who murdered your father.”

“Sir!” uttered Joyce, amazed out of her senses.