“I should suppose so, but I will not answer for it, as Wrench says—and he has had a pretty good insight into matters of this sort. Juries take such strange crotchets in their heads. Still it is fair to assume that he will be convicted.”
“In any case the two young ladies had better be out of the way.”
While the foregoing conversation was taking place in the reception-room of the grand old hall, Patty Jamblin and Aveline were in the pleasure grounds.
They had for a companion and protector a Mr. Frank Wrexford, son of Sir Mathew Wrexford, the baronet from whose house Henry Adolphus was coming on the night of the murder.
Patty, pale, silent, and thoughtful, was no longer the sprightly, mirthful girl, who had been the light and life of Stoke Ferry Farm, but she had greatly improved in health and strength since she had been at the Hall.
Young Wrexford, who was an Oxford oarsman, persuaded the young ladies to permit him to give them a row on the lake in the pleasure grounds of Broxbridge. While plying his oars he kept up an animated conversation, told them a number of amusing anecdotes, and paid marked attention to the earl’s grand-daughter, who, however, did not appear to offer him any encouragement.
Aveline, like a true Ethalwood, was proud, and it was not everyone she took to.
The boat sped on over the glassy surface of the lake.
“I should like to see you both in better spirits,” said Wrexford; “but past events, I suppose.”
“It is hardly worth while, or, indeed, prudent, to refer to past events,” cried Aveline. “Let us look to the future.”