“And since then?”
“I have not seen him since.”
Mace’s eyes brightened with satisfaction, and Gil, as he stood there alone, felt recompensed for much of the past, as it seemed to him that now he was in trouble she was turning to him.
“Sir Thomas Beckley must know this,” cried the founder. “The suspicion is that Abel Churr has been foully dealt with, and that you, Gilbert Carr, are to blame.”
“And I say that whoever charges me with hurt to Abel Churr lies,” cried Gil, hotly. “The scoundrel had a secret of mine in his keeping, and I did threaten him, but I let him go when I had caught him robbing me, with such a warning that I felt he would never come again.”
There was truth in his bearing, but somehow there was only one present who believed him, as he stood there alone, while the founder said coldly, “Gilbert Carr, there’s a dark suspicion hanging over thee. It may be that the deed was not done by thee, but by orders to thy men; but, anyway, it behoves thee to clear thyself by finding Abel Churr. Till you can do that, come upon my premises no more. Sir Mark, we are a rough people here, and set at naught some of the laws, but we hold a man’s life in good esteem. I shall see Sir Thomas, our justice, in the morning, and no stone will be left unturned to find this wretched man.”
“Gilbert Carr,” said Master Peasegood, advancing; “speak out once more—Do you know aught of this wretched man?”
“I have said all I know, Master Peasegood,” replied Gil, quietly. “I can say no more.”
“We must wait, Master Cobbe,” said the parson. “Seven days are but a short time. He will come back perhaps ere long.”
“I hope he will,” said the founder, firmly. “Gilbert Carr, this is my land, and no place for thee.”