"I don't think he did it knowingly, Mr. Chaskin," replied Paul; "he declares that he remembers nothing of the events of the night. Might he not have killed his daughter while under the influence of drink? Not knowingly, as I say, but guided mechanically by his confused intelligence?"
"No," cried Chaskin, with a negative gesture. "No--no. Impossible!"
"Quite impossible," said a calm voice behind them. Paul turned his head to see who had interrupted their conversation, and at the side door beheld Darcy Herne. Evidently he was the visitor with whom Chaskin had been talking prior to the visit of the journalist.
"Quite impossible," reiterated Herne, advancing into the room. "I agree with my friend, Mr. Mexton. Whosoever killed my poor Milly, it was not her miserable father."
Paul said nothing for a moment, being taken up with an examination of the intruder. The squire was a man of middle height, lean even to emaciation; and, clothed in black as he was, from head to foot, he looked of greater stature than he actually was. His face was clean-shaven and handsome, though not strikingly so; but his eyes were hard and glittering, and perpetually changing their expression. They were the eyes of a leader of men, but of a fanatic; of a man rendered pitiless by religious mania. There was no softness, no tenderness in them; but they flashed like stars, brilliant as diamonds; the eyes of a Loyola, of a Torquemada. Darcy Herne was a reformer, a fanatic; in earlier times he would have been a prophet; but in whatever age he lived he would always have preserved the characteristics of a nature frozen and narrowed by a devouring devotion to religion. There was nothing loveable about the man; and it was little to be wondered at that the dead girl had feared him. The curious thing was that she could have brought herself to accept the attentions of this religious machine.
"I did not know you were here, Mr. Herne," said Paul, without replying to the remark made by the squire.
"I came down to-day," replied Darcy, taking a chair. "It was not my intention to return until this evening, but my friend Chaskin telegraphed me about the death of Milly, so here I am."
He spoke with great deliberation and calmness; so much so that Paul stared at him in surprise, and wondered how he could be so social in the face of such a tragedy as the murder of his future wife. Paul had known Herne for many years, having met him frequently at the Lesters, and he had always had an unpleasant feeling towards him. Now that the man proved himself to be so devoid of any tender feeling towards the dead girl, Mexton felt that his latent distaste was developing into positive dislike. Perhaps he showed his feelings too plainly, for Chaskin bent forward and touched him on the knee.
"You must not think that my friend is heartless because he does not exhibit much sorrow," said he; "he feels this terrible event deeply."
"I feel it more than you or Mexton can imagine," said Herne, with an impressive look on his face. "I selected Millicent Lester to be my wife in order to save her from the snares which her beauty and vanity were laying for her. I designed that she should help me in my life-work of succoring the poor and lowly and oppressed. With her beauty and my wealth, I imagined in my vain pride that we would be powerful instruments in the hand of an all-guiding Providence; but alas! God has brought her down to the grave and myself He has left without a helpmate."