“Then why, if not guilty, did he go away?”
“Fear sent him. What would his word have been against Gisby’s dying declaration? You remember what a hubbub there was, sir—enough to frighten any man away, however innocent he might be.”
“Allow, for argument’s sake, that your theory is correct, and that he was frightened into going into hiding, why does he not come out of it? Gisby is alive and well again.”
Ah, I could not speak so confidently there. “I think he must be dead, sir,” I said, “and that’s the truth. If he were not, some of us would surely have heard of him.”
“I see,” said the old gentleman, looking straight up at the stars. “We are both of the same mind, Johnny—that he is dead. I say he might have died that night: you think he went away first and died afterwards. Not much difference between us, is there?”
I thought there was a great deal; but I could not tell him why. “I wish we could hear of him, sir—and be at some certainty.”
“So do I, Johnny Ludlow. He was brought up at my knee; as my own child.”
On our way home, Tod with the bag of game slung over his shoulder, we came upon Mr. Holland near the Parsonage, with Edna Blake and the children. They had been to Farmer Page’s harvest-home. Whilst the parson talked to Tod, Edna snatched a moment with me.
“Have you heard any news, Johnny?”
“Of him? Never. We can’t make it out.”