"It is but a night or two ago that we were speculating on his health, upon his taking a profession; we might have spared ourselves the pains, poor lad. I asked you, who was his heir-at-law, little thinking another would so soon inherit."
Mr. Edwin Barley made no reply.
"Why—good heavens!—is that Mrs. Barley sitting there?" he inquired, in a low tone, as his eyes fell on the distant stairs.
"She won't move away. These things do terrify women. Don't notice her, Martin: she will be better left to herself."
"Upon my word, this is a startling and sudden blow," resumed the clergyman, again recurring to the death. "But you must surely be mistaken in calling it murder."
"There's no mistake about it: it was wilful murder. I am as sure of it as though I had seen the aim taken," persisted Mr. Barley. "And I will pursue Heneage to the death."
"Have you secured him? If it really is murder, he must answer for it. Where is he?"
Mr. Barley spoke a passionate word. It was a positive fact—account for it, any one that can—that until that moment he had never given a thought to the securing of George Heneage. "What a fool I have been!" he exclaimed, "what an idiot! He has had time to escape."
"He cannot have escaped far."
"Stay here, will you, Martin. I'll send the labourers after him; he may be hiding in the wood until the night's darker."