If he had not found that handkerchief—if he had not secured that letter—why, by now the police would be at Bittermeads.
“All the same,” he thought. “No one who is guilty shall escape through me.”
But what this phrase meant, and what he intended to do, he would not permit himself to think out clearly or try to understand.
The boy, having told his story, hurried off to spread the news elsewhere to more appreciative ears, for, he thought disgustedly, it might have been just nothing at all for all the interest the gardener at Bittermeads had shown.
As soon as he was gone, Dunn went across to the house, and going up to the window of the drawing-room where Ella and her mother were having tea, he tapped on the pane.
Ella looked up and saw him, and came at once to open the window, while from behind Mrs. Dawson frowned in severe disapproval of what she considered a great liberty.
“Mr. Clive has been shot,” Dunn said abruptly. “They say poachers did it. He was killed instantly.”
Ella did not seem at first to understand. She looked puzzled and bewildered, and did not seem to grasp the full import of his words.
“What—what do you say?” she asked. “Mr. Clive—Who's killed?”
Dunn thought to himself that her acting was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.