Artingale protested that he had been silent only from the best motives, was accused of deceit and want of confidence, and ended by making a full confession of the whole incident, after which he had to take Cynthia and show her the exact spot before his shuddering little companion condescended to forgive.
“And when was this, sir?”
“This day month,” said Artingale, humbly, “and we have not seen him since. Magnus and I have watched, and searched, and hunted, and done everything possible; but, as I say, I think I have been the sacrifice. He believes he killed me, and is afraid to show.”
“Perhaps he has committed suicide out of remorse,” said Cynthia.
“Just the sort of fellow who would,” replied Artingale, with a dry look.
“Now you are laughing at me,” cried Cynthia, pettishly. “I declare, Harry, I believe you are tired of me, and want to quarrel. I’ve been too easy with you, sir, and ought to have kept you at a distance.”
More protesting and pardoning took place here, all very nice in their way, but of no interest to any save the parties concerned.
“You must get Julie to come out more now,” said Artingale. “Tell her there is nothing to mind.”
“I can’t make poor Julie out at all,” said Cynthia thoughtfully. “She seems so strange and quiet. That man must have frightened her dreadfully.”
“Did she tell you about it?”