“I mean it,” said the baronet firmly. “Saints forbid ’tis any concern of mine to interfere, do you elect to hold him fast. But dup the poor wretch in decent quarters, Tuke, and not in a hole ’twere a shame to fling a dog into.”
“I have my own methods and places,” said the lord of “Delsrop,” mighty haughtily. “Is that what you came to say?”
A flush of resentment crimsoned Sir David’s face.
“Yes,” said he; “and some more to a harder purpose.”
On the word he reigned in his anger shortly, and a smile broke from his lips.
“There!” he cried frankly. “I come set on discretion, and this is the result. ’Tis no business of mine, I allow. But I have an old tenderness for the man, Tuke, and it wrings me to think of him maddening down there.”
“I regret the necessity.”
“Is it one? Waiving the question of the ‘Priest’s Hole’—are you so convinced of his guilt?”
“Else would my treatment of him lack a warrant, Sir David Blythewood.”
“Ah! You are offended with me. I can’t help it. I—rabbit it, Tuke! ’twill out, ’twill out. I resent your treatment of the man. You come amongst us, a stranger, and God knows I would be friendly with ye. But ye start on a cross scent here, where an older member of the pack would hunt true, and you would have us all follow your lead. D’ye think I don’t know more about Dennis in twenty year than you have found out in a month, or two or three? I stake my faith you’re misled somewhere, and that the man’s innocent of evil intent, whatever the appearances.”