“Your intended bride, you know,” added Marshall with an insinuating smile. “Hullo, where is the young lady?”
Monk looked round towards the dog-cart and on every side, but Matt was nowhere to-be seen.
“I see her go into that theer cart,” said William Jones.
“Call her,” cried Monk. “I’ll stay no longer here. Listen to me, you two. Whether you are telling truth or lies, that girl is going to become my wife—I have her guardian’s consent, and she herself, I may tell you, fully appreciates the honour I am doing her.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Lightwood, smiling. “Unfortunately I, as Miss Monk’s legal adviser, must have a say in the matter. Doubtless this marriage would be a very pretty arrangement for keeping the late Colonel Monk’s fortune and property in your possession, but I cannot conscientiously approve of the young lady’s marriage to an assassin.”
“An assassin!—what—what do you mean?” gasped Monk, staggering as if from a blow.
“Tell him, Mr. Marshall.”
“All right, sir. Well, you see, Mr. Monk of Monkshurst,” continued the detective, grimly yet playfully, “you’re accused of making away with—murdering, in fact—a young gentleman who came to Aberglyn a few weeks ago in that little house on wheels; and this nice friend of yours,” (here he again slapped William Jones on the shoulder) “is accused of being your accomplice.”
“No, no. I never done it! I’m innocent, I am!” cried William Jones. “Tell ’em, Mr. Monk, tell ’em—I’d nowt to do with it.”
“Silence, you fool,” said the other; then he added, turning on his accusers, “You are a couple of madmen, I think! I know nothing of the young man you speak of! I have heard that he is missing, that is all; but there is no evidence that any harm has come to him, for his body has not been found.”