“How do you know? Who found her?” queried Henderson.
“Miss Churchill, from Woodside Farm, they say, and she ran and met the young squire from the Hall. Anyhow, she’s dead—she’s been shot, and they say an inquest will be held on her to-morrow.”
Henderson turned absolutely livid as he listened to Jack’s information. He took two or three hasty strides down the stable yard, and then he once more returned to the groom’s side.
“Jack,” he began, and then hesitated.
“Well,” asked Jack, not over-respectfully.
“You remember,” went on Henderson, forcing himself to speak, “taking a note to her from me?”
Jack laconically nodded his head.
“That note,” went on Henderson, desperately, “was to ask her to meet me in Fern Dene, but I changed my mind and did not go. She had got some folly into her head about marrying me, and so I thought afterward it was better not to go. But she may have gone—do you see, Jack? Yes, to be sure she may have gone,” continued Henderson, wiping his dark brow.
“And, Jack, about that note? Did anyone see you give it to her?” he went on.
“Yes, there were some fellows sitting at the bar saw me,” answered Jack, coolly.