"I shall see in the newspapers what she has done, she says. What can she mean?"
A sudden light seemed to break in upon him: he turned to Lady Vaughan. "Rely upon it," he said, "it is some fancy of hers about that murder. I shall not lose a moment. I shall go in search of her."
[CHAPTER XX.]
The court at Loadstone was crowded to excess. Since the town was built there had never been so great a sensation. The terrible murder at Oakton had been a subject of discussion over all England. The colonel was one of the most prominent men in the county; he had always been very proud and very exclusive, and the county had grown proud of the old aristocrat. It was a terrible blow to him when his nephew was charged with wilful murder.
All the élite of the county had crowded to the trial. Loadstone had never been so full; the hotels could not hold half the number who flocked to hear Claude Lennox tried. There were no more lodgings to be had for love or money. It was not only the county people who testified their interest. Claude Lennox was well-known, and had been courted, popular, and eagerly fêted in London drawing-rooms. Many of his old friends, members of his club came to see him tried.
It was an unusual case because of the rank, wealth, and position of the accused—Claude Lennox, the idol of London coteries, the Adonis of the clubs, the heir of grand, exclusive Colonel Lennox. Then the murder seemed so utterly motiveless. The young man swore most solemnly that he knew nothing of the deceased—that she was a stranger whom he had relieved. The handkerchief found upon her he said was his, and that it had been given from motives of charity, to bind her bruised hand. The address on the scrap of paper he admitted was in his own writing—he had given it to her, hoping that either his mother or his aunt would be able to find her work. More than that he refused to say. He refused to account for his time—to say where he had been that night—to make any attempt to prove an alibi. He was asked who was his companion at Oakton station, and he refused to answer. His lawyer was in despair. The able counsel whom his distracted mother had sent to his assistance declared themselves completely nonplussed.
"Tell us how you passed the night," they had said, "so that we may know what line of defense to adopt."
"I cannot," he replied. "I swear most solemnly that I know nothing of the murder. More than that I cannot say."
"It is probable you may pay for your obstinacy with your life," said Sergeant Burton, one of the shrewdest lawyers in England.