“Johnny, do you know, we might almost have made sure Fred Westerbrook was not guilty,” said the Squire, quite humbly, as we were crossing the turnip-field. “But why on earth did he run away? Where is he?”
“I think he must be dead, sir. What news this will be for Mr. Westerbrook.”
“Dear me yes! I shall go to him with it in the morning.”
When the morning came—which was Sunday—the Squire was so impatient to be off that he could hardly finish his breakfast. The master of the N. D. Farm, who no longer had energy or health to keep the old early hours, was only sitting down to his breakfast when the Squire got there. In his well-meaning but hot way, he plunged into the narrative so cleverly that old Westerbrook nearly had a fit.
“Not guilty!” he stammered, when he came to himself. “Fred not guilty! Only met the poachers by accident!—was not the man that shot Gisby! Why, that’s what Johnny Ludlow was trying to make me believe only a day or two ago!”
“Johnny was? Oh, he often sees through a stone wall. It’s true, anyway, Westerbrook. Fred never had a gun in his hand that night.”
“Then—knowing himself innocent, why on earth does he stay away?”
“Johnny thinks he must be dead,” replied the Squire.
Old Westerbrook gave a groan of assent. His trembling hands upset a cupful of coffee on the table-cloth.
They came on to church together arm-in-arm. Mr. Holland joined them, and told the news—Dick Standish was dead: had died penitent. Penitent, so far as might be, in the very short time he had given to repentance, added the clergyman.