He was a superb-looking man, with an expression of mingled kindness and dignity that invariably awakened both awe and admiration in the spectator. No man in the country—I was going to say no woman was more beloved, or held in higher esteem. Yet he could not control his only son, as everyone within ten miles of the hill well knew.
At this moment his face showed both pain and shock.
"What name are you shouting out there?" he brokenly demanded. "Agatha
Webb? Is Agatha Webb hurt?"
"Yes, sir; killed," repeated a half-dozen voices at once. "We've just come from the house. All the town is up. Some say her husband did it."
"No, no!" was Mr. Sutherland's decisive though half-inaudible response. "Philemon Webb might end his own life, but not Agatha's. It was the money—"
Here he caught himself up, and, raising his voice, addressed the crowd of villagers more directly.
"Wait," said he, "and I will go back with you. Where is Frederick?" he demanded of such members of his own household as stood about him.
No one knew.
"I wish some one would find my son. I want him to go into town with me."
"He's over in the woods there," volunteered a voice from without.