“For the life of me I don’t.”
“Do you mean to say you’re not aware of what’s happened?”
“What’s happened! When? Where?”
“At Llangorren, the night of that hall. You were present; I saw you.”
“And I saw you, Mr Shenstone. But you don’t tell me what happened.”
“Not at the hall, but after.”
“Well, and what after?”
“Captain Ryecroft, you’re either an innocent man, or, the most guilty on the face of the earth.”
“Stop, sir! Language like yours requires justification, of the gravest kind. I ask an explanation—demand it!”
Thus brought to bay, George Shenstone looks straight in the face of the man he has so savagely assailed; there to see neither consciousness of guilt, nor fear of punishment. Instead, honest surprise mingled with keen apprehension; the last not on his own account, but hers of whom they are speaking. Intuitively, as if whispered by an angel in his ear, he says, or thinks to himself: “This man knows nothing of Gwendoline Wynn. If she has been carried off, it has not been by him; if murdered, he is not her murderer.”