“I care not how black they look,” responded the squire. “I know that Faradeane is incapable of such a crime.”
As he spoke the door opened.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” said the butler; and as the squire made a motion of assent, a short, commonplace-looking man, dressed like a well-to-do farmer, entered.
“Good-evening, sir,” he said, quietly and respectfully. “My name is McAndrew, detective, from Scotland Yard. I’ve got charge of this case.”
The squire waved him to a seat and leaned back wearily.
“Why do you wish to see me?” he asked.
“Yes, we know nothing about it,” said Bartley Bradstone.
The detective looked at him as if he had not noticed the presence of a third person, and bowed.
“Certainly not, sir; but I called to pay my respects and to ask a few questions. You’ve heard how the verdict of the coroner’s inquest has gone, sir?” addressing the squire.
“Yes.”