They looked at Honeysuckle's foal, and Warren pronounced it one of the best she had had. Eli Todd, he fancied, treated him in a somewhat off-hand manner. Surely he did not suspect anything, he could not unless Janet had written to him.
Everything jarred upon him, his nerves were disordered, and he felt irritable and out of sorts. He dreaded an exposure, and felt it was gradually coming. He knew what the Squire's wrath would be when he found out Ulick had been unjustly suspected, as he must do sooner or later.
"Tell him all and get rid of the burden," whispered conscience. He dare not, and yet it would have been the best way out of the sea of trouble into which he was floundering.
In the Squire's study hung the painting of Random, and he pointed it out to Warren with pride, and said—
"Irene has done it splendidly; it is lifelike. I never saw a picture of a horse more natural. You ought to be proud of your wife, she does many things, and does them all well."
"I am proud of her," said Warren, in a half-hearted tone that irritated the Squire, who of late had been constantly blaming himself for being the cause of Irene throwing herself away upon Warren Courtly.
"She is the best woman I know, and her heart is in the right place. Confound it, Warren, you have no right to leave her alone as you do, it is not fair to her. Why don't you take her up to London, if you really have to go to town so often?"
"I will next time," said Warren, lamely. He seemed at a loss for words, and the Squire thought he had a shame-faced look.
"He's been up to some devilment, I'm sure of it," he thought. "By Jupiter, if he's done anything to trouble Irene's peace of mind he'll find he has me to reckon with."
"Your journey to London does not seem to have benefited you much," said the Squire.