“Ran into the house, ma’am, and snatched the icepick off the kitchen table. Then he went to the big car like a mad ’un, he did. Pounded holes in every blessed tire with his pick!”
“And then what?” I asked, with my heart up in my throat.
Hilton waited until he had taken a crowded corner before answering.
“Then he found the dead dog, ma’am, and bathed it, and borrowed the garden spade from me. Then he took it somewheres back in the ravine and buried it. I gave him the tool-box off the old roadster, to put what was left of the pup in.”
“And then?” I prompted, with a quaver in my voice I couldn’t control.
“He met Mr. Murchison coming out and he called 332 him w’at I’d not like to repeat, ma’am, until Mr. McKail stepped out to see what was wrong, and interfered.”
“How did he interfere?” was my next question.
“By taking the lad into the house, ma’am,” was my witness’s retarded reply.
“Then what happened?” I exacted.
I waited, knowing what was coming, but I dreaded to hear it.