“Did you hear any one enter the stables afterward?”
“No, nary a soul.”
“There is a black mare in the stables, used under the saddle. Was she taken out that night?”
“Not thet I knaow of. Why?”
“Well, there seems to be a pretty positive story that she was. She was seen on the road, in fact, late that night, coming from the ravine. The rider was not recognized, but the mare was. How do you account for that?”
“Tain’t none o’ my business to ’caount for it.” Milton did not like the tendency of the conversation.
“No, I know that, but we are interested in finding out. I don’t think you know me—I am the District Attorney—and I shall take particular pains to find out.”
A gulf suddenly yawned before Milton’s feet, and he made a prompt, bold attempt to leap it. “I didn’t like to say nothin’ ’baout it, bein’ as it’s in th’ fam’ly”—he cast an uneasy glance at John here—“but Seth Fairchild rides th’ mare a good deal. I did hear somebody saddlin’ th’ mare, but I took it fer granted it was him, ’n’ sao I didn’t git up. It’d be jes like him, I said to myself, to go ridin’ in th’ moonshine. He’s thet sort of a feller, naow ain’t he, John?”
The sound of his own voice frightened Milton as he went on, and his closing appeal to the brother for corroboration carried the nervous accent of fear. John did not answer, but rose and walked over to join Ansdell at the window.
“Of caourse,” Milton began, in a lower voice, to which he sought to give a confidential tone, “I don’t wan’ to say nothin’ agin Seth. Of caourse, he’s John’s brother, ‘n’——”