true that he hated Lady Hereward—but Terry broke the thought almost fiercely in her brain. She was angry with herself for letting it steal in. Maud's description of Sir Ian's namesake—his cousin in blood—was not the description of a murderer, it seemed to Terry. She had liked what Maud said of him; the young man, bravely if obstinately waging his tight against the world which denied him a place; yet here she was suspecting him, vulgarly, just like any inmate of the servants' hall. Besides, no one could really hate Milly. She was always kind, always unselfish, even to those she did not like; so Maud said.
Thus the night passed; a white night for Terry Ricardo, and a white night for the world, bathed in moonlight. Yet in the forest, whose Gothic aisles were paved with ebony and ivory moonshine and shadow, there were sounds other than the whispering of pines and beeches, or the rustling of tiny wood-folk among the feathery bracken. Dark figures of men moved under the trees; lanterns flashed like the yellow eyes of spying cats; low voices murmured solemnly, or broke out in exclamations at the sudden bell-note of dogs baying; for the police had brought bloodhounds to Riding Wood, and were trying to trace the murderer of Lady Hereward.
