"A detective, no!" said she, readily enough. "But you are a rich man;
you could employ detectives; you could clear your wife, if you liked."
"Rachel, you know very well that you are cleared already."
"That is your answer, then!" she cried scornfully, and snatched her eyes
from him at last, without waiting for a denial. She was done with him,
her face said plainly; he looked at her a moment, then turned aside with
a shrug.
But Rachel's eyes went swiftly round the room; they alighted for an
instant upon Morna Woodgate, leaning forward upon the sofa where they
had sat together, eager, enthusiastic, but impotent as a woman must be;
they passed over the vicar, looking stolid as usual, and more than a
little puzzled; but at last they rested on Langholm's thin, stooping
figure, with untidy head thrust forward towards her, and a light in his
dreamy eyes that kindled a new light in her own.
"You, Mr. Langholm!" cried Rachel, taking a quick, short step in his
direction. "You, with your plots and your problems that nobody can
solve; don't you think you could unravel this one for me?"
Her eyes were radiant now, and their radiance all for him.
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