“And couldn’t you prove your innocence?” cried the Squire, as he followed out the train of ideas suggested.
“Not at present—that I see. And when once a man has stood at a criminal bar, it is a ban on him for life, although it may be afterwards shown he stood there wrongly.”
“True,” said the Squire, softening.
Well—for there’s no space to go on at length—the upshot was that Monk went away with a promise; and the Squire came home to the Manor and told Duffham, who was waiting there, that they must both be silent. Only those two knew of the discovery; they had kept the particulars and Monk’s real name to themselves. Duff gave his head a toss, and told the pater he was softer than old Jones.
“How came you to suspect him, Johnny?” he continued, turning on me in his sharp way.
“I think just for the same things that you did, Mr. Duffham—because neither his face nor his voice is true.”
And—remembering his look of revenge when accused in mistake for the magpie—I suspected him still.