“Ah—yes,” he said, stumbling over the words; and then: “I am to infer that you didn’t recognize the young man whom you saw with Miss Richardia yesterday afternoon?”
“No; he was a stranger to me. Doesn’t the judge approve of him?”
This time the professor’s smile was rather grim.
“He does not—most decidedly.”
“But Richardia loves him; and that is enough—for you and for me.”
“Assuredly she loves him—very loyally,” was the grave reply; and a moment later, as if the mention of the judge had evoked a new train of thought: “I am curious to know if my leaf-fire diversion—which had such unlooked-for and disastrous results—came soon enough. How much had Morgan McNabb confessed?”
Tregarvon ignored the brow-wrinkling of pain which accompanied the question.
“I am beginning to believe that you are a very hardened criminal, Mr. Hartridge. If you know that McNabb had a confession to make, it follows that you were his accomplice.”
The answer was a suppressed groan, for which the schoolmaster instantly apologized.
“You—you must forgive me if I say that I can’t go into the matter of culpability with you just now. This leg—of mine—grows a bit insistent. But it will be the greatest possible satisfaction to me if you will answer my question.”