Not a look, not a movement, was lost on Ned, whose features suddenly broke up into a grim and horrible smile as he noted the action of the lady. It was a smile of cunning, of mockery. But Mr. Brander had treated him with dislike and contempt.
“You think,” said the vicar of Rishton at last, “that the man who poisoned your dogs was the same who made away with your sister?”
“I don’t think; I know.”
“I don’t want to be hard on you, Mitchell. But it seems to me that you feel the latter loss the more acutely of the two.”
“It showed,” returned Ned, doggedly “that the fellow is no better minded now than he was then.”
“You might say so if they were human beings whose lives he had taken,” said the vicar, continuing his gentle remonstrance. “As they were only dogs, I am inclined to take a more lenient view; while admitting that this unknown person——”
“No, not unknown,” interpolated Ned.
The vicar went on without noticing the interruption.
“—had no right either to trespass on your premises or destroy your dogs, allowance must be made for the state of mind of a desperate man, who believes, rightly or wrongly, that these animals will be used to discover his guilt.”
“Well, vicar,” said Ned, who had been staring straight into the clergyman’s face with a cynical smile, “I’ve said my say; that’s what I came here for. Now it’s done, I’ll wish you, and your good lady, and Mr. Vernon there, a very good-night.”