Accordingly he went, and did, as he expected, no good at all. Janet had resumed her ordinary manner, with an additional touch or two of vivacity and loquaciousness, which betrayed the uneasiness they were meant to hide. The only subjects she discussed were the last new novel and Tora Smith's wedding, and Philip took his leave, entirely unenlightened. The Squire offered to walk part of the way with him and they set out together.
The Squire stopped at the scene of the disaster. Pointing with his toe to a spot by the side of the drive:
"That's where that mad wretch stood, holding my poor girl," he said.
Philip nodded.
"And where was Dale?" he asked, for it was his first visit to the spot.
The Squire was delighted to be cicerone.
"He was standing with his back to that tree yonder, about fifteen yards off, looking due north, toward the house, thinking of a poem or some nonsense, I suppose."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, then," pursued the Squire, "you see he was almost in a straight line with Roberts—Roberts' barrel must have pointed straight toward Denborough church spire. After the first shot Bannister sprang forward—the gravel was soft, and we saw every footprint—to where Miss Fane fell, and——"
"Where did she fall?"