“Oh, nothing in particular,” replied the man, with a glance at Nell.
“Nothing as would interest you,” added another of the searchers, and he, too, looked in an odd manner at the young girl who sat with pale face and silent lips beside George Claris.
“Well, you might give a civil answer to a civil question, I should think!” said the innkeeper, angrily.
His niece, more by gestures and coaxing little touches of his sleeve than by words, tried to induce him to drive on. But he was obstinate. As an old inhabitant, and one, moreover, who had always been on good terms with every one, he thought he had a right to the information he had innocently asked for.
“Come now,” he persisted, leaning out of the dog-cart and speaking in a confidential tone: “If it’s a secret, you know as I can keep it. I’ve kept secrets enough before, haven’t I?”
But to his great indignation, he saw on some of the faces of the men at work what he took for a pitying smile.
He lost his temper.
“Now then, out with it!” said he, in a sullen tone.
The policeman to whom he had first spoken repressed the smile on his own face, and answered seriously enough:
“We’re not at liberty to say any more at present. But you’ll know as much as we do very soon—this afternoon, most likely.”