Nellie still hesitated. “He is here, I suppose.”
“Yes. He was thinking of staying to dine with me, and taking a late train to town. He has a steamer to catch to-morrow; but after what you say”—Overton looked at his watch—“I rather think that he had better go at once. There’s a train within half an hour.”
“Oh, he had much better go at once, before James has time to make trouble,” she answered; and then added gravely, “Mr. Overton, do you believe that the murder happened just as Mr. Vickers said?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“So do I,” Overton answered, “but then I have some reason, for I remember something of the case, which was a very celebrated one up the State. And now, Nellie, I’ll tell you a secret which I wouldn’t trust to any one else. I have an impression—a vague one, but still I trust it—that that case was set straight, somehow or other. If it should be——”
“Telegraph and find out.”
“I wrote some days ago—the night before your uncle was taken ill; but I have had no answer. But mind, don’t tell him. It would be too cruel, if I should turn out to be wrong.”
“I?” said Nellie. “I don’t ever expect to see the man again.”
“I suppose not,” he returned, “and yet I wish it were not too much to ask you to take him to the station in your trap. He won’t have more than time, and mine has not come to the door yet.”