Ralph Ingle looked at the earth and began to stir with his foot a brown branch of ground-pine which had pushed its way through the snow.
Brent stroked the donkey's ears for an instant, swallowed hard, hesitated, then spoke impulsively, "Elinor, there is no use in attempting to hide it. The man who did that foul murder is Christopher Neville."
"Never!"
"Ay, so I would have sworn two hours since; but tell me one thing—did he and the priest quarrel here at St. Gabriel's last night?"
"Ay—but—"
"Nay, no buts—plain facts tell their own story with no 'buts.' Did he or did he not start out into the night after the quarrel with Father Mohl?"
Elinor quivered as though the knife had entered her own heart.
"Oh, I will not answer! How can I when I know every word will be twisted to one fell purpose?"
"Elinor, what is it to thee what befalls a man whom thou didst meet but yesterday?"