“Losh, man!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “ye’ve a graund gift o’ suspeecioning.”
“And suppose I have, sir?” demanded the painter argumentatively. “There is little of good in ’Friston Manor, and evil begetteth evil. And Sayle is a law unto himself, with bullies at hand to work his wicked purposes.”
“Whisht, man!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Ye’ll no be suggestin’——”
“And why not, sir? Doth the man’s rank place him above suspicion?”
“Never heed father, Sir Hector,” said Mistress Pym at this moment, leaning in at the open door; “he doth but seek an argument——”
“Mistress,” quoth the painter, “mind your business!” Whereat Mistress Pym laughed and jingled away again.
“Pym—man,” said Sir Hector, “his lordship is no’ juist an archangel nor yet a seraphim, but ye’ll no’ be suspectin’ a man o’ his quality wad stoop tae murder a country lad o’ no condition.”
“On the contrary, Sir Hector, I say he would stoop to anything.”
“There was never any incriminating evidence found, I believe, sir?” inquired Sir John. “No clue of any kind discovered?”
“None of importance. Though I did find a thing on the footpath that runs above the ‘Long Man,’ near where the crime was committed—a thing I felt it my duty to show to the law officers and was laughed at for my pains.... I have it here somewhere.” And the painter turned to a small, carved press in a corner where stood two or three fishing-rods in company with a musket and a birding-piece.