“I’ll go if you—if she wishes it,” he said, staring at the carpet like a man in a dream. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll tell them to get a carriage—and yet the noise. Will you walk?”
“Yes,” he said; then he looked up with a sudden start of fear, and shuddered. “Yes, I’ll walk; but—but I’d like to have some one—one of the servants with me. I’m—I’m upset, you see,” he stammered, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.
The squire looked at him and the decanter; but his gentle nature found some excuse for him.
“My poor fellow!” he said. “But this will not help you,” and he pointed to the brandy.
“No, I know; but—I’m upset, I’m dreadfully upset. This—this murder business——”
The squire sighed deeply.
“My brain is in a whirl. It was the sudden shock that struck my poor girl down. There is some hideous mistake, some dreadful mystery! It is impossible that he can be guilty!”
“He—he didn’t deny it,” said Bartley Bradstone, sullenly.
The squire looked at him with sad surprise.