"Ah!" interposed Drake, "there you are. We have not yet found the weapon; and after all, Morley, the evidence is purely circumstantial. We do not know for certain that Miss Denham is the guilty person."
"Why did she fly, then?" demanded Morley fiercely. "If she were innocent—if she had not left the church until the others did—she would have returned, and now been in bed. But from what Trim says she fled on Ware's motor-car."
"Humph! She can't get far on that. Such a night, too."
And the rector walked to the window to watch the still falling snow.
Morley shook his head. "Miss Denham knows the country for miles and miles, and Ware taught her how to drive the motor. I shouldn't be surprised if she got away after all, in spite of the weather."
Drake looked uneasy, and placed himself before the fire with a shiver. He rather admired Miss Denham, and could not yet bring himself to believe that she was guilty. Even if she were, he cherished a secret hope that she might escape the police. It was terrible to think that one woman should be dead, but it was more awful to look forward to the trial, condemnation, and hanging of the other.
"I blame Ware a good deal for this," continued Morley gloomily. "He openly admired Miss Denham, and encouraged her to flirt with him. A rash thing to do to one who has negro blood in her veins. I expect passion carried her beyond herself."
"How do you know she has negro blood?"
"She said so herself."
"Did you know that when you engaged her?"