“So Matilda Valentine is gone, sir,” he observed, after we had exchanged a few sentences.
“Yes, she went yesterday,” I answered, putting my back against the field fence, while young Joe went careering about in chase of a yellow butterfly. “And for my part, I don’t wonder at the girl’s not liking to stay at Saltwater. At least, in Seaboard Terrace.”
“I was told this morning that Mr. and Mrs. Peahern were on their way home,” he continued.
“Most likely they are. They’d naturally want to look into the affair for themselves.”
“And I hope with all my heart they will be able to get some light out of it,” returned Owen, warmly. “I mean to do my best to bring out the mystery, sir; and I sha’n’t rest till it’s done.”
His words were fair, his tone was genuine. If it was indeed himself who had been the chief actor in the tragedy, he carried it off well. I hardly knew what to think. It is true I had taken a bit of a fancy to the man, according to my usual propensity to take a fancy, or the contrary; but I did not know much about him, and not anything of his antecedents. As he spoke to me now, his tone was marked, rather peculiar. It gave me a notion that he wanted to say more.
“Have you any idea that you will be able to trace it out?”
“For my own sake I should like to get the matter cleared up,” he added, not directly answering my question. “People are beginning to turn the cold shoulder my way: one woman asked me to my face yesterday whether I did it. No, I told her, I did not do it, but I’d try and find out who did.”
“You are sure you heard and saw nothing suspicious that night when you rang the bell and could not get in, Owen?”
“Not then, sir; no. I saw no light in the house and heard no noise.”