"I tell you, Butterby, this must be hushed up," repeated Bede, his agitation unmistakable, his voice strangely hollow. "It must be hushed up at any cost. Do nothing."
"And if the parson finds Pitman out for himself?" asked Butterby, his deep green eyes, shaded by their overhanging eyebrows, looking out steadily at Bede.
"That is a contingency we have nothing to do with yet. Time enough to talk of it when it comes."
"But, Mr. Bede Greatorex, if Pitman really was the----"
"Hush! Stay!" interrupted Bede, glancing round involuntarily, as if afraid of the very walls. "For Heaven's sake, Butterby, let the whole thing drop; now and for ever. There are interests involved in it that I cannot speak of--that must at all risks be kept from my father. I wish I could unburthen myself of the whole complication, and lay the matter bare before you; but I may not bring trouble on other people. To accuse Pitman would--would re-open wounds partially healed; it might bring worse than death amidst us."
It truly seemed, bending over the table in his imperative, realistic earnestness, that Bede was longing to pour out the confidence he dared not give. Butterby, revolving sundry speculations in his mind, never took his eyes for an instant from the eager face.
"Answer me one question, Mr. Bede Greatorex--an' you don't mind doing it. If you knew that Pitman was the slayer of your cousin, would you still screen him?"
"If I knew--if I thought that Pitman had done that evil deed, I would be the first to hand him over to justice," spoke Bede, breathing quickly. "I feel sure he did not."
Butterby paused. "Sir, as you have said so much, I think you should say a little more. It will be safe. You've got, I see, some other suspicion."
"I have always believed that it was one person did that," said Bede, scarcely able to speak for agitation. "If--understand me--if it was not an accident, or as the jury brought in, why then I think I suspect who and what it really was. Not Pitman."