“Yes, he was very ill: could hardly crawl, and I sent him on to Ranby Union, where he died.”
“And you knew all this, sir?” faltered John Maine.
“Knew it, Maine? How could I help it? Mr Keeper Brough, too, made a point of telling me that he had seen you talking to a couple of disreputable-looking scoundrels, evidently trading poachers. Don’t you remember what a bad headache it gave you, Maine?”
The young man stared at the speaker, and could not find a word.
“He has been very busy I find, too, at the farm,” continued the vicar, forgetting his own troubles in those of his visitor. “Mr Bultitude does not like it, and he has been in a good deal of trouble about your nocturnal wanderings, friend John Maine.”
“I can explain all that, sir,” said Maine.
“Of course you can,” said the vicar, coolly.
“But you knew of all this, sir?” faltered the young man.
“To be sure I did, John, and respected you for it; but I fear you have been giving poor Jessie a good deal of suffering through your want of openness.”
“I’m afraid she thinks ill of me, sir.”