He had no doubt, in his own mind, that Dandy Chater had murdered this unfortunate girl. Her words to himself, on the night of his coming to Bamberton—her reminder, to the supposed Dandy Chater, of his promise to marry her—the mysterious appointment made, for that same night, in the wood behind the mill; all these things seemed to point to but one conclusion. Again, the man running, as for his life, to catch the train—and without the girl; her disappearance, from that hour; all these things, too, pointed, with unerring finger, to the common sordid story, ending, in an hour of desperation, in the blow which should rid the man of his burden.
These thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind, even in the few seconds which elapsed after the other man’s halting declaration, and while that other man still crouched at his feet. Then, the instinct of self-preservation—the desire, and the necessity, to hide that blood-stained thing, which seemed to point to him—innocent though he was—as surely in death as it would have pointed in life—swept over him. He caught the lad by the arm, and dragged him to his feet; the while his mind was fiercely working, in a wild attempt to settle some plan of action. Even in that hour of danger, a keen remembrance of the part he still had to play was full upon him; in his brutal roughness of voice, when he spoke, he played that part of Dandy Chater, as he imagined Dandy Chater would have played it himself.
“Get up, you fool!” he cried, roughly. “Is this a time to be snivelling here? Suppose she is dead—it was an accident.”
Harry sadly but doggedly shook his head. “You won’t find many to believe that, Master Dandy,” he said. “She lies there—stabbed in the breast. There is a trail of blood for some yards; she must have tried to crawl away—and have bled to death. Master Dandy, can’t you see that she will be found; can’t you guess what they will say, and whom they will question first? All the village has linked your names, for months past.”
“She—it must be hidden,” whispered Philip, weakly. “God—man”—he cried, with a sudden burst of petulant anger—“why do you stand staring like that? It may be found at any moment; it may have been found before this!”
“There’s no help for it, Master Dandy,” replied the other, with a groan—“it must be found, sooner or later. I tell you, you must get away—beyond seas, if possible.”
“And draw suspicion on myself at once!” exclaimed Philip. Then, some of the real Philip Chater coming to the surface, and sweeping aside the false personality under which he lived, he added, hurriedly—“But you must have nothing to do with it, Harry; we mustn’t get you into trouble. No—I’ll take the thing in my own hands, and in my own fashion. Do you keep a silent tongue to every one.”
“You need not fear that I shall speak, Master Dandy,” replied the lad. “And it may not be so bad, after all; you may yet find a way of getting out of it, Master Dandy.”
“A way of getting out of it!” muttered Philip to himself, as he watched the retreating figure of his servant. “There seems but small chance of that. Robbery was bad enough; but this is another matter. She’s dead, and cannot speak; even if she were alive, she must point to me as Dandy Chater. And I cannot speak, because the real Dandy Chater is gone, and I stand here in his clothes, and with his very papers in my pockets. Philip, my boy—keep a cool head—for this business means death!”
Some morbid attraction, no less than the necessity for doing something with the body, urged him to see it. But, here again, the bitterness and the strangeness of his position came strongly upon him; for, though he stood in deadly peril of being charged with the murder of this girl, he was actually ignorant of the spot where her body lay. He shuddered at the thought that he might stumble upon it, at any step he took. Still casting about in his mind for the best method of finding the place, he went back to the Hall; and resolved to fortify himself with dinner, before doing anything.