“Perhaps it may be,” answered the Squire, rather emphatically; “but not in mine.”
Happening to look at Mrs. Todhetley, I saw her face had turned to a white fright. Whether the remark of Sanker or the peculiarity of the Squire’s manner brought to her mind the strange coincidence of the losses, here and at school, certain it was the doubt had dawned upon her. Later, when I and Tod were hunting in the room on our own account, she came to us with her terror-stricken face.
“Joseph, I see what you are thinking,” she said; “but it can’t be; it can’t be. If the Sankers are poor, they are honest. I wish you knew his father and mother.”
“I have not accused any one, Mrs. Todhetley.”
“No; neither has your father; but you suspect.”
“Perhaps we had better not talk of it,” said Tod.
“Joseph, I think we must talk of it, and see what can be done. If—if he should have done such a thing, of course he cannot stay here.”
“But we don’t know that he has, therefore he ought not to be accused of it.”
“Oh! Joseph, don’t you see the pain? None of you can feel this as I do. He is my relative.”