“Look here, James Wilton,” said Garstang, looking at him curiously; “have you come here to insult me with your suspicions? If this young lady has left your roof, do you suppose I have had anything to do with it?”
“Yes, I do, and a great deal,” cried Wilton, angrily. “You can’t hoodwink me, even if you can net me and fleece me. Do you think I am blind?”
“In some things, very,” said Garstang, contemptuously—
“Then I’m not in this. I see through your plans clearly enough, but you are checked. Where is that boy of yours?”
“I have no boy,” said Garstang, contemptuously.
“Well, then, where is your stepson?”
“I do not know, James Wilton. Harry Dasent has long enough ago taken, as your son here would say, the bit in his teeth. I have not seen him since he came down to your place. But surely,” he cried, springing up excitedly, “you do not think—”
“Yes, I do think, sir,” cried Wilton, rising too; “I am sure that young scoundrel has carried her off. He has been hanging about my place all he could since she has been there, and paying all the court he could to her, and you know it as well as I do, the scoundrel has persuaded her that she was ill-used, and lured her away.”
“By Jove!” said Garstang, softly, as he stood looking thoughtfully at the carpet, and apparently hardly hearing a word in his stupefaction at this announcement,
“Do you hear what I say, sir?” cried Wilton, fiercely, for he was now thoroughly angry; “do you hear me?”