"Ay. Then let me see thee thy father's child. Seek truth and righteousness as he has always done; and put off,—as some one put off certain mountebank pink petticoats we wot of—eh, little Ruth?—the pride of life, and the lust of the eye and the ear; for these are but part and parcel all of things that lead to the soul's destruction; feeding vain imagination and empty fancy—"
"Father! father!" interrupted Ruth, wildly, "I would it were fancy, or that my poor silly imagination were to blame. But 'tis truth and fact indeed. See here!" and dragging him before the panel, she pushed it open with hasty trembling hands. "See what these—friends of yours have done!"
"Sheriff Goodenough!" cried Rumbold, recoiling in horror-struck amazement! "Dead?"
Murdered!
"Murdered—look. There is blood upon his hands."
"Who has done this? Who?—"
"Colonel Rumsey."
"The villain!" muttered Rumbold, grinding his teeth. "I knew," he went on meditatively, knitting his brows, "that their hearts were not at peace with one another. How came we to be so ill-advised as to leave them alone together?—Yet to dream of its coming to this! And how—" Then he paused. What need to ask how she had come by her information? The broken panel explained all. "What brought it about?" he said after another silence. "They came to high words?"
Ruth nodded.
"Concerning?—"