“I will answer for it that he was never guilty of a dishonourable action, that he provoked no man’s hatred by any unworthy act,” interrupted the Vicar warmly.
He had been curate at Milbrook before he got the Cheriton living, and had lived for two years at the Priory while he prepared Godfrey Carmichael for Eton, so he claimed the right to vouch for the honour of the dead.
“There never was a whiter soul in mortal clay,” said the Vicar.
“I am inclined to estimate his character almost as highly as you,” replied Lord Cheriton, deliberately, “yet the straightest walker may make one false step—and there may have been some unfortunate entanglement at the University or in London——”
“I will never believe it. He may have been tempted—he may have yielded to temptation,—but if he erred, be sure he atoned for his error to the uttermost of his power.”
“There are errors—seeming light to the steps that stumble—which cannot be atoned for.”
“There was no such error in his youth. I looked in his face on his wedding day, Lord Cheriton, and it was the face of a man of unblemished life—a man who need fear no ghost out of the dead past.”
“Well, you are right, I believe,—and in that case the murder is motiveless—the murder of a madman—a madman so profoundly artful in his lunacy as to escape every eye. By heaven, I wish we had the old way of hunting such a quarry—and that a leash of bloodhounds could have been set loose upon his track within an hour of the murder. They would have hunted him down—their instinct would have found him skulking and shivering in his lair; and we should have needed no astute detective primed with all the traditions of Scotland Yard. It would have been swift, sudden justice—blood for blood.”
His dark grey eyes shone with an angry light as he walked up and down the spacious floor of the library, while the Vicar stood in front of the fire, looking gravely into his clerical hat, and without any suggestion to offer.
“I hope Lady Carmichael is recovering her spirits,” he said feebly, after a pause.