Laura was near enough to hear the last word, softly as he whispered it. She turned to me with a look of terror.
“Nonsense, my dear,” I said. “There is no need to be alarmed. It is only the blood of a poor little stray dog.”
Everybody was astonished, and everybody’s eyes were fixed on me inquiringly.
“How do you know that?” asked Sir Percival, speaking first.
“I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all returned from abroad,” I replied. “The poor creature had strayed into the plantation, and had been shot by your keeper.”
“Whose dog was it?” inquired Sir Percival. “Not one of mine?”
“Did you try to save the poor thing?” asked Laura earnestly. “Surely you tried to save it, Marian?”
“Yes,” I said, “the housekeeper and I both did our best—but the dog was mortally wounded, and he died under our hands.”
“Whose dog was it?” persisted Sir Percival, repeating his question a little irritably. “One of mine?”
“No, not one of yours.”