“You do not think him guilty?” he said.
“I? Oh, no; certainly not,” was the quick response. “But—but—of course it’s a mystery. I—I wish it had happened at some other time. Curse it! It will never be found out.”
“Yes, it will be found out,” said the squire, solemnly.
He took two or three turns across the room, his hand to his brow; then he stopped suddenly.
“Why, I remember! It must have occurred while you were on your way to The Maples. Did you hear nothing? The glade is not far from the drive.”
Bartley Bradstone was putting on his overcoat, and stopped with one arm in the sleeve.
“Who, I?” he exclaimed, indignantly. “What do you mean? What do I know about it?” Then, recalled to himself by the squire’s look of sad astonishment at his tone, he continued, more quietly, “For Heaven’s sake, don’t get me mixed up in the business; that—that would make it bad for Olivia, you know. I don’t know anything about it. I—I cut across the park in the other direction.”
“With the carriage?” exclaimed the squire.
“No, no, I didn’t take a carriage; didn’t I tell you? I thought I should save time by running across the park, and—and I wasn’t anywhere near the spot, I’m glad to say. They can’t force me to attend the inquest and all that, can they?” he asked, averting his face.
The squire shook his head.