It was her turn to laugh. "Oh, you know! About that man he killed, or didn't kill, up in the Lakes somewhere. I really think it was your duty to have told—anybody mightn't have cared to stop at his hotel after a thing like that!"
"Who told you anything about it?"
"Louisa, of course. Louisa's always my newsmonger. She had it from the maid of the man's wife—Mrs. Tyne, wasn't her name? No, Trent. I knew it was some river or other. Maids tell each other everything. It only came out yesterday, else I'd have been at you about it before. Louisa swears Mr. Gardiner really did it, and you screened him. Did he? and did you? Do tell! It isn't every day one comes across a thrilling tale like this!"
"There was an inquest," said Denis stiffly. "You can read all about it in the papers, if you choose. It was brought in accidental death."
"Well, I know that, or Mr. Gardiner would have gone to prison, wouldn't he? But what Louisa says is that the whole truth didn't come out at the inquest. He knocked the man down, or something, instead of his tumbling of himself. I can quite believe he would knock a man down, if he lost his temper. Did he really do it, and make you hush it up? I do so want to know!"
"My dear," said Miss Byrd gently, "don't you see you're worrying Mr. Merion-Smith!"
"Am I?" said Dorothea. She shot a cool, leisurely, searching glance at Denis's troubled face. "Well, I'm sure I don't see what there is to worry anybody in what I've been saying—unless, of course, it's true!"
Denis had to say something. He felt for and found his voice, hoping it sounded more natural to her than it did to himself. "It was—rather a bad business," he got out. "I—don't much care for talkin' about it. I don't think Miss O'Connor quite realizes what it meant for us—we saw it, you know; and Mrs. Trent too—" He stuck fast. Was that the best he could do for his friend? The old excuse rose to his lips. "But I can assure you it was an accident!"
"Oh, well, of course I'm sorry if I said what I oughtn't. I only meant it for a joke!" said Dorothea conventionally.
Denis turned away to the window. What evil fiend had prompted her to dig up that story? It was none the sweeter for its long burial. On Dorothea's lips it made him feel sick. He had a passing pain and wonder at her tone, so discordant, so unlike herself. But that was due to shyness, he told himself, the struggles of a wild thing to escape capture, and putting the thought by he went on steadily to his purpose. It was not easy to turn Denis when his mind was made up. He spoke the sentence he had prepared before entering the house.