“Mr. Dering, sir, is lying in Duxley gaol, waiting to take his trial at the next assizes.”
“His trial!” echoed Tom in amazed perplexity. “Trial for what?”
“For wilful murder, sir!”
“Can this be true?” cried Tom, as he sank back, with blanched face and staring eyes, on the old oaken seat in the porch.
“Only too true, sir—only too true!” moaned Mrs. Bevis. “But I’ll never believe that he did it—never!” she added emphatically. “A kinder heart, a truer gentleman, never drew breath.”
“I’ll say amen to that,” replied Tom, earnestly. “But Lionel Dering committed for wilful murder! It seems an utter impossibility.”
“Why, all England’s been ringing with the story,” added Mrs. Bevis.
“And yet I’ve never heard of it. But, as I said before, I’ve only just got back from the East, where I was two months without seeing a newspaper.
“I couldn’t bear to tell you about it, sir. My heart seems almost broken as it is. But I’ve got the newspapers here with all the account in. Perhaps you would like to read them for yourself, sir.”
“I should indeed, Mrs. Bevis. But did I understand you aright when you said that Mr. Dering was in Duxley gaol?”