“Couldn’t he have taken up her spoor?” said Elvesdon.
“Not much. There had been a succession of violent thunder-storms, and the face of the veldt was washed smooth by torrential rains. No spoor to be taken up.”
“By Jove, it’s a mysterious affair,” said Elvesdon. “How long ago was it, by the way?”
“Eighteen or nineteen years. He was arrested and kept in the tronk for some weeks, while every hole and corner of his farm was searched. They even dug up the cattle-kraals in search of remains—you know, Elvesdon, like that Moat Farm business in England a year or two ago—only of course in this case they found nothing. Thornhill half laughed when he was told of this, only saying that he had never for a moment imagined they would. Well of course, there was only one way out; for no one knows better than yourself that a man can’t be put upon his trial for murder until it is proved that a murder has been committed, which in this case it seemed impossible to do. So our friend was turned loose again.”
“Of course. But what of the general opinion. Was it believed he’d done it?”
“That’s just how it was. Not a man Jack or woman Jill but was firmly convinced of it, and for a long time he was practically boycotted. For the matter of that, even now they don’t get many visitors you may have noticed.”
“Yes. That has occurred to me. By the way. Vine, what about the children. How did the suspicion affect them as they grew up? Did they believe it?”
“The boys didn’t, but the strange and sad part of it is that the girl did, and does still.”
Elvesdon started.
“And—does still?” he echoed. “I see.”