"So be it. We will not quarrel about terms. I believe there is no lease?—though, of course, that is no business of mine."
"I must say that it is not, my lord," said Mr. Gilmore, who was waxing wrothy and becoming very black about the brows.
"I have just said so; but I suppose you will admit that I have some interest in this parish? I presume that these two gentlemen, who are God's ministers here, will acknowledge that it is my duty, as the owner of the greater part of the parish, to interfere?"
"Certainly, my lord," said Mr. Puddleham.
Mr. Fenwick said nothing. He sat, or rather leant, against the edge of a table, and smiled. His brow was not black, like that of his friend; but Gilmore, who knew him, and who looked into his face, began to fear that the Marquis would be addressed before long in terms stronger than he himself, Mr. Gilmore, would approve.
"And when I remember," continued his lordship, "that the unfortunate man who has fallen a victim had been for nearly half a century a tenant of myself and of my family, and that he was foully murdered on my own property,—dragged from his bed in the middle of the night, and ruthlessly slaughtered in this very house in which I am sitting, and that this has been done in a parish of which I own, I think, something over two-thirds—"
"Two thousand and two acres out of two thousand nine hundred and ten," said Mr. Puddleham.
"I suppose so. Well, Mr. Puddleham, you need not have interrupted me."
"I beg pardon, my lord."
"What I mean to say is this, Mr. Gilmore,—that you should take steps to prevent that young man's return among our people. You should explain to the father that it cannot be allowed. From what I hear, it would be no loss if the whole family left the parish. I am told that one of the daughters is a—prostitute."