Regarding the death of Boyne, the only thing in his favour was that his own sword-point was free from stain. His lawyer made the utmost of this, but to no avail. The impression in the court was that both men had been drinking; that they had quarrelled, and that without a duel being fought Dyck had killed his enemy.
That there had been no duel was clear from the fact that Erris Boyne’s sword was undrawn. The charge, however, on the instigation of the Attorney-General, who was grateful for the information about France, had been changed from murder to manslaughter; though it seemed clear that Boyne had been ruthlessly killed by a man whom he had befriended.
On one of the days of the trial, Dyck’s father, bowed, morose, and obstinate, came to see him. That Dyck and Boyne had quarrelled had been stated in evidence by the landlord, Swinton, and Dyck had admitted it. Miles Calhoun was bent upon finding what the story of the quarrel was; for his own lawyer had told him that Dyck’s refusal to give the cause of the dispute would affect the jury adversely, and might bring him imprisonment for life. After the formalities of their meeting, Miles Calhoun said:
“My son, things are black, but they’re not so black they can’t be brightened. If you killed Erris Boyne, he deserved it. He was a bad man, as the world knows. That isn’t the point. Now, there’s only one kind of quarrel that warrants non-disclosure.”
“You mean about a woman?” remarked Dyck coldly.
The old man took a pinch of snuff nervously. “That’s what I mean. Boyne was older than you, and perhaps you cut him out with a woman.”
A wry smile wrinkled the corners of Dyck’s mouth. “You mean his wife?” he asked with irony. “Wife—no!” retorted the old man. “Damn it, no! He wasn’t the man to remain true to his wife.”
“So I understand,” remarked Dyck; “but I don’t know his wife. I never saw her, except at the trial, and I was so sorry for her I ceased to be sorry for my self. She had a beautiful, strange, isolated face.”
“But that wouldn’t influence Boyne,” was the reply. “His first wife had a beautiful and interesting face, but it didn’t hold him. He went marauding elsewhere, and she divorced him by act of parliament. I don’t think you knew it, but his first wife was one of your acquaintances—Mrs. Llyn, whose daughter you saw just before we left Playmore. He wasn’t particular where he made love—a barmaid or a housekeeper, it was all the same to him.”
“I hope the daughter doesn’t know that Erris Boyne was her father,” said Dyck.