"No," cried Bella aloud, and in an agony of shame; "the man I love could not be guilty of so vile an act." So she tried to comfort herself, but the fact of Cyril's visit to the house still lingered in her mind.
Shortly Mrs. Coppersley returned with Tunks at her heels. The handy-man of Bleacres was a medium-sized individual, with a swarthy skin and beady black eyes peering from under tangled black hair. Lean and lithe, and quick in his movements, he betrayed his gypsy blood immediately, to the most unobservant, for there was something Oriental in his appearance. Just now he looked considerably scared, and came no further than the door of the room.
"There's your master," said Mrs. Coppersley, pointing to the dead, "so just you go to the village and tell the policeman to come here. Bella, you have not touched anything, have you?"
Bella shook her head. "I have not even touched the body," she confessed with a shudder. "Tunks, were you about the house last night?"
"No, miss," said the man, looking more scared than ever. "I went home nigh on seven o'clock, and was with my granny all the evening. I know nothing about this, miss."
"I don't suppose you do," rejoined the girl tartly, "but I thought you might have seen my father later than Mrs. Coppersley here."
"I left the house last night at the same time as you, ma'am," said Tunks, addressing himself to the housekeeper. "You locked the back door after me."
"Yes," acknowledged Mrs. Coppersley promptly, "so you did. That would be at seven, as I came up and saw you, Bella, a few minutes before, with the tea and toast. You didn't come back, Tunks?"
"No, I didn't," retorted the gypsy sullenly. "You went on to Marshely, and I got back home. I never came near this house again until this morning. You can ask my granny if I wasn't in bed early last night."
"When did you see your master last?" questioned Bella.