"Don't you believe that your father has been murdered?"
"I don't know; I can't tell. Tunks says so, and I don't suppose he would tell such a story against himself unless it were true. But no body has been found, and until the body of the missing man is found, it is presumed in law that he is alive. But"—Cyril shrugged his shoulders—"who can tell the truth?"
"It will be made manifest in time," said Bella firmly; "your father, or your father's body, will be found. Where are Durgo and Henry to be buried?"
"In Marshely churchyard to-morrow. I shall go to the funeral. I am sorry for Durgo. In spite of his skin he was a real white man. And when he is under the earth, Bella, I think we had better sell the jewels and marry, and take a trip round the world in order to forget all this terrible business. I am quite glad it is over."
"It is not over yet," insisted Bella, "your father has to be found, and Mrs. Vand must be discovered."
"Or their bodies," said Cyril significantly, and turned away.
It must not be thought that young Lister was callous. His father had never been one to him, and, moreover, his son had seen so little of him, that he was as strange to the young man as he had been to the boy. Cyril deeply regretted the gulf that was between them, as he was of a truly affectionate nature, but his father always had repelled the least sign of tenderness. He only looked on Cyril as one to be made use of, and borrowed from him on every occasion. Had he succeeded in getting the jewels and had aided Durgo to regain his chiefdom, he would have remained in Nigeria as a kind of savage prime minister, without casting a thought to his son. And whether his father was dead or alive, Cyril knew that he would have to repay the one thousand pounds which he had borrowed to cover his father's delinquency in respect of the forged cheque. How could such a son as Cyril Lister respect or love such a parent as Edwin of the same name?
Nevertheless, Cyril, although he said little to Bella, was very anxious to ascertain the fate of his father. It seemed very certain that Tunks had seen him murdered by the evil-hearted old sailor, but what that scoundrel had done with the body could not be discovered. In vain the police dug in the cellars of the Manor-house, tapped the walls, ripped up the floors, and dragged the boundary channel. The body of Edwin Lister could not be found, and as no one had seen him save Tunks, and Pence, and Bella, who had all mistaken him for Cyril, the police began to believe that Edwin, the father, was a myth. And Cyril could not make Inglis see otherwise for all his urging and confession.
"If the man is alive, why doesn't he turn up?" asked Inglis; "and if dead, why can't we find his body?"
There was no answer to this, and Cyril gave up his father's fate as a riddle, when he walked in the cool of the evening towards the Solitary Farm. The immediate object of his visit was to find if Mrs. Vand, dead or alive, was concealed in the thickly standing corn. Bella strolled by his side. But the lovers had taken no one into this particular confidence, not even Dora, and walked towards the well-known house, and up the corn-path, anxiously looking right and left. Then Cyril uttered an exclamation of annoyance. "What a bother!" he said, much vexed: "see, Bella, there are labourers still reaping—yonder, near the scarecrow."