"No," Tim answered, so hesitatingly, that Kitty shot a glance full of suspicion at him. "Perhaps some strange dog got into your garden," he suggested, feeling himself to be very mean-spirited as he spoke, "or perhaps the wind—"
"Oh, it couldn't have been the wind," she interrupted impatiently, "although there was a strong breeze blowing, but not strong enough to upset a heavy box like that. Bob thinks a big dog must have pushed the hutch over in trying to get it open, but I don't know what to think, except that you know something about it," she declared with a ring of decision in her tone.
Tim was so taken aback at this sudden and direct charge that he had no answer ready. The colour rushed to his face in a flood of crimson, then, receding, left him quite pale.
"What do you mean?" he gasped at length, assuming anger to hide his dismay. "How dare you say that I know something about it?"
"You said you'd pay us out because Snip had spoilt your garden—we didn't know he'd done it, so it wasn't our fault—and I thought you might have killed my rabbit out of spite."
"I never knew your rabbit was dead till I saw it in your arms," declared Tim solemnly. "I hadn't the faintest idea there was a rabbit in the box, I didn't know what was there."
"But did you overturn the box?" persisted Kitty.
For a moment Tim hesitated. He still craved for the friendship of Kitty and her brother, and he thought if he acknowledged his guilt they would never have anything to do with him, so, though he was usually truthful, on this occasion he gave way to the temptation of the moment, and answered:
"No, certainly not."
He did not look at Kitty as he spoke; and when several minutes had elapsed without her having addressed him again, he plucked up courage to glance furtively towards the apple tree, he found the little girl had gone. He did not know that he had lied in vain, or guess that Kitty, who was very keen of discernment, believed he held the key of the mystery which surrounded her rabbit's death.