"Save this," put in Lestrange, who appeared to be getting somewhat weary of Cicero's cumbersome diction, "that here is the proof that it was Thorold who carried off the body. Do you believe now in his guilt?"
"I reserve my opinion," said the Rector, who could not but acknowledge to himself that things looked black for Alan.
"I don't!" cried Sophy, rising. "If fifty men, with fifty lancets, came to tell me this story, I would not believe a word against Mr. Thorold. He can explain. I believe in him firmly, and, to prove my belief, I shall marry him as soon as I can."
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" cried Lestrange, losing his temper. "I am your father, and I command you to come with me."
"And I am my own mistress, and I refuse," she said quietly. "You can't frighten me. I don't believe your stories."
"Nor do I," said the Rector. "When Mr. Thorold comes back, he will, no doubt, be able to explain his presence in Heathton on that night, and also the loss of his lancet."
"He shall explain it to the police!" cried Lestrange, in a threatening manner.
"No, no," said Cicero, apprehensive at this mention of his natural enemies; "let us take counsel together. Cannot this matter be adjusted, so that Mr. Thorold may escape the reward of his iniquitous proceedings?"
Sophy looked at him with a satirical smile. Then she turned to address Lestrange as the senior partner in this firm of scoundrels.
"How much do you want?" she asked.