Seth laughed unpleasantly.
“A good deal, I should think, seein’ as you was ’er ’usband.”
Bartley Bradstone’s face went livid, and he looked from side to side, like the hunted man he was.
“How do you know that?” he demanded. “Who told you?”
“I saw you married,” replied Seth, coolly. “Come, Mister Bradstone, don’t put my back up. I’m rather tired of this game o’ chevyin’ you up to London and back again, and I want to come to business. I know more about you and Bella than you think for.”
“Go on,” said Bartley Bradstone. “Tell me what you know or think you know.”
“I will,” said Seth. “I know more than the judge and jury as ’ull try Mr. Faradeane, and, by God, I’ll tell ’em, if you don’t make it worth my while to hold my tongue.”
Bartley Bradstone stood with his eyes upon the ground, his lips tightly compressed. He seemed to feel the meshes of a huge, wide-spreading net closing round him. Whichever way he turned, he was met by some obstacle to his escape.
And this man who had, unseen, tracked him step by step throughout the day, what did he know? And how much? At all costs he must learn this.
He opened the door. “Come inside,” he said; and leading the way to the library and turning up the gas, looked keenly at Seth’s dark face and slouching figure. “You say, my man, that you know something about this murder. Do you know who did it?”