“Why, Jane, my girl, this is indeed a horrible story, and have you kept this all to yourself for these last six years?”
“Indeed I have; but, waking or sleeping, one burning thought has been in my brain. It is this—to avenge the death of my dear and true-hearted James.”
The farmer was bewildered—partly dazed by the fearful tale he had been listening to. He turned his eyes towards his sister, who had crept into the room to listen to the appalling narrative.
“Did you know of this?” inquired Ashbrook.
“I knew a shocking affair of some sort took place at Squire Gordon’s when Jane was there, but I never knew till now its precise nature. I understood that some young man was murdered—that is all. How and by whom I was never told.”
“And was the man never discovered? An attempt was made to find him, I s’pose?” asked the farmer of his servant.
“Government offered a reward of a hundred pounds; a description of the man was printed on handbills, which were sent, so they said, to every police-station.”
“With what result?”
“With none, except the arrest of a poor harmless fellow, who never set foot in the squire’s house, and who had no more to do with the crime than you or I have.”
“And the handkerchief?”