“That’s the name, sir. I recollect it quite well, because it put me in mind of St. George and the Dragon. But I’ll fetch you the newspapers.”
She brought the papers presently, and left Tom to himself while he read them. The case was as Mrs. Bevis had stated it. Lionel Dering stood committed to take his trial at the next assizes for the wilful murder of Percy Osmond.
Mrs. Bevis, coming back after a quarter of an hour, found Mr. Bristow buried deep in thought, with the newspapers lying unheeded by his side.
“You don’t believe that he did it, do you, sir?” she asked, with tearful earnestness.
“I would stake my existence on Mr. Dering’s innocence!” said Tom, emphatically.
“God bless you, sir, for those words!” cried Mrs. Bevis. “There must surely be some way to help him—some way of proving that he did not do this dreadful thing?”
“Whatever friendship or money can do shall be done for him. That you may rely upon.”
“Mr. Dering saved your life, sir. You will try and save his, won’t you?”
“I will—so help me Heaven!” answered Tom, fervently.
“It is strange,” mused Tom, as he walked sadly back to the station, “that in all our long conversations together Dering should never have mentioned that he had an uncle living within three miles of Duxley, and I should never have spoken of the town by name as the place where I was born and reared. And then to think that Tobias Hoskyns, my old governor, should be the man of all men into whose hands Dering has entrusted his case! But the whole affair is a tissue of surprises from beginning to end.”