“Nonsense!” said Harkutt, putting the hat aside with a new fastidiousness. “You don't think”—
“I think,” said Peters, lowering his voice, “I think, by God! HE'S BIN AND DONE IT!”
“No!”
“Sure! Oh, it's all very well for Billings and the rest of that conceited crowd to sneer and sling their ideas of 'Lige gen'rally as they did jess now here,—but I'd like 'em to see THAT.” It was difficult to tell if Mr. Peters' triumphant delight in confuting his late companions' theories had not even usurped in his mind the importance of the news he brought, as it had of any human sympathy with it.
“Look here,” returned Harkutt earnestly, yet with a singularly cleared brow and a more natural manner. “You ought to take them things over to Squire Kerby's, right off, and show 'em to him. You kin tell him how you left 'Lige here, and say that I can prove by my daughter that he went away about ten minutes after,—at least, not more than fifteen.” Like all unprofessional humanity, Mr. Harkutt had an exaggerated conception of the majesty of unimportant detail in the eye of the law. “I'd go with you myself,” he added quickly, “but I've got company—strangers—here.”
“How did he look when he left,—kinder wild?” suggested Peters.
Harkutt had begun to feel the prudence of present reticence. “Well,” he said, cautiously, “YOU saw how he looked.”
“You wasn't rough with him?—that might have sent him off, you know,” said Peters.
“No,” said Harkutt, forgetting himself in a quick indignation, “no, I not only treated him to another drink, but gave him”—he stopped suddenly and awkwardly.
“Eh?” said Peters.