Mrs. Rebson, being a woman, and fond of gossip, had her fair share of curiosity. Also she was anxious to hear what Clarice had been doing in London, and to know exactly how she had saved Ferdy, although Mrs. Rebson had a very vague idea of what Ferdy was to be saved from. That her darling had anything to do with the crime never entered her foolish old head. However, her impatience¹ would not permit her to stay downstairs longer than an hour, so she went back to the room of her young mistress as soon as she could.  
Clarice was not within, and Mrs. Rebson was puzzled. She hunted through the other rooms on the same floor, and at length came to Ferdy's apartment. Here she found the room in disorder², and Clarice lying on the carpet in a dead faint. Considerably³ alarmed, Mrs. Rebson got water and vinegar and sal volatile⁴, and all such-like aids to insensible people. Shortly Clarice revived and sat up with a dazed look. But as soon as a memory of what she had found came back to her with a rush, she struggled to her feet, and crushed up the scrap⁵ of shaving-paper upon which she had impressed the fern. The stamp itself she had held closely in her left hand all the time she was insensible, so she did not think that her dim-eyed old nurse had seen anything. More than that, Mrs. Rebson ascribed to the London trip this unexampled behaviour on the part of the girl. Never before had strong-minded Clarice Baird lost her senses.
 
"Come and lie down, deary," coaxed⁶ Mrs. Rebson, leading the girl back to her own room; "you're fairly worn out with gadding⁷ about that nasty London. I'll bring you up some tea."
 
"Do, Nanny," said Clarice, faintly, and when the nurse left the room, she lay passively upon her bed.
 
What she felt at the moment no one knew, and no one could ever know. The stamp of the Purple Fern was inseparably connected with the many murders, and that it should be in Ferdy's bedroom, hidden away so carefully, seemed terrible and inexplicable⁸. Ferdy could not have murdered his guardian⁹, since he had been locked up in his room, and yet the stamp which had been used to impress the fatal mark on the forehead of the dead was in Ferdy's possession. Of course, Osip, who was really the murderer, might have had another stamp. Certainly he must have had another stamp, and no doubt each member of the triumvirate possessed¹⁰ a similar article. Ferdy was guiltless, and Osip had done the deed. And yet, how came it that Ferdy had this particular stamp in his possession? Clarice could have shrieked¹² with fear and horror, and had to roll over on her pillow to prevent herself from crying out. And then another agonised thought came into her tormented¹³ mind.
 
Zara had told her to search Ferdy's room, therefore Zara must have known that the stamp was hidden away there. And if Zara knew, it was in her power to hang the poor boy. Poor boy--could even his own sister speak of him in that way, when he was connected with a callous¹⁴, cruel crime? He had not stabbed Horran with the assegai, since he had been locked in his room, but he must have impressed the Purple Fern on the dead man's forehead. Unless Osip--oh, yes, Osip must have done it, not Ferdy--not Ferdy--not Ferdy. And so the girl's distracted brain buzzed and droned with the hideous¹⁵ repetition of one word, "Guilt¹¹! Guilt! Guilt!"
 
"I shall go mad," moaned Clarice. "What am I to do? I dare not tell Anthony. I dare not marry him. What is to be done--oh, great heavens, what is to be done?" Then it came into her mind that Zara had stated how Clarke had paid his midnight visit to the death-chamber, and at two o'clock. That was the time--according to the medical evidence--when the deed had been committed. Between one and two o'clock in the morning, Dr. Jerce had said at the inquest. And Clarke was there. If he was innocent himself, he might know who was guilty. He could not have seen Ferdy, who was bolted and barred in his bedroom; but he might have seen Osip kill Horran and impress that infernal seal of evil on the dead. Yes! She would see Clarke--she must see Clarke. There was no need for her to say what she had discovered. She would merely let Clarke speak. She would tax him with his visit, and to exonerate¹⁷ himself--if he was guiltless--he would certainly detail all that happened. If he mentioned Ferdy's name--but then he would not do that--he could not--he dare not. Ferdy could prove an alibi¹⁸. His sister could prove an alibi for him. Whomsoever killed Horran, her brother was, at least, innocent. And yet the stamp--the stamp of the Purple Fern. How could she explain that away?
 
"My! Miss Clarice, you do look bad," said Mrs. Rebson, entering with a dainty meal of tea and toast. "That nasty London. Here, drink the tea. You'll feel better soon, deary. And after all, you have saved Master Ferdy, haven't you, my deary little maid?"
 
Clarice winced¹⁹ and lied bravely. "Yes," she said, faintly; "I have saved Ferdy. You need have no fear, Nanny. Leave me for ten minutes."
 
Rather reluctantly the old woman departed, and Clarice forced herself to drink a cup of tea and to eat a morsel²⁰ of toast. She would have to be strong, if Ferdy was to be saved. Zara knew the truth about the boy, and might tell the police. There was no one to save Ferdy, poor, weak, foolish creature, but his sister, and his sister would save him in the face of all obstacles. Clarice, therefore, fought with herself; she struggled desperately²¹ with her woman's weakness; she braced²² herself with prayer, and finally triumphed over the flesh by the strength of her spirit. When Mrs. Rebson stole back to the bedroom, she was amazed to see how rapidly her young mistress had recovered her presence of mind. She had left a pale-faced, tearful girl; she found a calm, self-contained woman.
 
"It's wonderful what tea and toast will do," Mrs. Rebson, with great complacency.
 
"Nanny," observed Clarice, who had now determined²³ what to do; "send to Mr. Clarke, and tell him to see me this afternoon."
 
"You are not well enough, deary."
 
"I am. I must see him."
 
"But your hair, deary."
 
"What's the matter with--oh, yes." Clarice mechanically put her hand to her head. "It is rather awkward. But it is not too closely cropped, Nanny. Get out the hair I cut off, and we'll weave it into what I have left on my scalp."
 
Mrs. Rebson laughed at what she conceived was a joke, and between them they contrived²⁴, very skilfully²⁵, to fasten on the shorn tresses. As Ferdy usually wore his hair in a musician-like way, Clarice had imitated the cut, so it was not difficult to replace the severed²⁶ locks in the style in which she generally wore them. Also, since she wished to still play the part of invalid²⁷, she made Mrs. Rebson draw down the blinds and light the fire. Then, swathed in blankets and shawls, Clarice sat ready for the visit of the parson. She had failed to deceive Sir Daniel Jerce, but Mr. Clarke, being less clever and observant, and not a doctor, she felt certain that she would manage to trick him. Having thus arranged her stage, the anxious girl waited for the vicar.
 
Mr. Clarke appeared almost on the heels of the messenger, and looked more wild and wan²⁸ than ever. With a weary air he shook hands with Miss Baird, and expressed his regret that she was suffering from influenza²⁹. Then he sat down opposite to her and stared into the fire with lack-lustre eyes. Clarice had to break the ice. "Mr. Clarke," she said, hesitating, for it was not easy to begin; "I wish to speak to you about a very important matter----"
 
"I am quite at your service, Clarice."
 
"And one which touches your reputation," said the girl.
 
Mr. Clarke started and became paler than ever, as he cast a keen, wild look at the speaker. "I--I--I--don't understand," he stuttered.
 
"Carry your thoughts back to the night when Uncle Henry was murdered," said Clarice, significantly, "and you will understand."
 
The vicar considered for a few moments, and then shook his head. "No, I don't know what you mean. I thought--I thought," he moistened his dry lips, "I thought that you were going to speak of Frank. And I won't have his name mentioned," he ended, violently.
 
"I did not intend to speak of Frank," said Clarice, wondering why the memory of his dead son should so agitate³⁰ him; "but of your visit to Uncle Henry's room on that night."
 
"My vis............