chestnut hair, as he listened to it. He did not interrupt the narrative, or speak at its conclusion.
“You see, Lionel, it appears certain to have been one belonging to this house.”
“Yes, sir. Unless Dolly was mistaken.”
“Mistaken as to what?” sharply asked Mr. Verner, who, when he made up his own mind that a thing was so-and-so, could not bear to be opposed. “Mistaken that some one came in at the gate?”
“I do not see how she could be mistaken in that,” replied Lionel. “I meant mistaken as to its being any one belonging to the house.”
“Is it likely that any one would come in at that gate at night, unless they belonged to the house, or were coming to the house?” retorted Mr. Verner. “Would a stranger drop from the clouds to come in at it? or was it Di Roy’s ‘ghost,’ think you?” he sarcastically added.
Lionel did not answer. He vacantly ran his fingers through his hair, apparently in deep thought.
“I have abstained from asking you the explicit details of your movements on that evening,” continued Mr. Verner, “but I must demand them of you now.”
Lionel started up, his cheek on fire.
“Sir,” he uttered, with emotion, “you cannot suspect me of having had act or part in it! I declare, before Heaven, that Rachel was as sacred for me—”
“Softly, Lionel,” interrupted Mr. Verner, “there’s no cause for you to break your head against a wheel. It is not you that I suspect—thank God! But I wish to be sure of your movements—to be able to speak of them as sure, you understand—before I accuse another.”
“I will willingly tell you every movement of my evening, so far as I remember,” said Lionel, resuming his calmness. “I came home when dinner was half over. I had been detained—but you know all that,” he broke off. “When you left the dining-room, I went on to the terrace, and sat there smoking a cigar. I should think I stayed there an hour, or more; and then I went up-stairs, changed my coat, and proceeded to Mr. Bitterworth’s.
“What took you to Mr. Bitterworth’s that evening, Lionel?”
Lionel hesitated. He did not choose to say, “Because I knew Sibylla West was to be there:” but that would have been the true answer. “I had nothing particular to do with my evening, so I went up,” he said aloud. “Mr. Bitterworth was out. Mrs. Bitterworth thought he had gone into Deerham.”
“Yes. He was at Deerham when the alarm was given, and hastened on here. Sibylla West was there, was she not?”
“She was there,” said Lionel. “She had promised to be home early; and, as no one came for her, I saw her home. It was after I left her that I heard what had occurred.”
“About what time did you get there—I mean to Bitterworth’s?” questioned Mr. Verner, who appeared to have his thoughts filled with other things at that moment than with Sibylla West.
“I cannot be sure,” replied Lionel. “I think it must have been nine o’clock. I went into Deerham to the post-office first, and then came back to Bitterworth’s.”
Mr. Verner mused.
“Lionel,” he observed, “it is a curious thing, but there’s not one of you but might have been the party to the quarrel that night; so far as that your time cannot be positively accounted for by minutes and by hours. I mean, were the accusation brought publicly against you, you would, none of you, be able to prove a distinct alibi, as it seems to me. For instance, who is to prove that you did not, when you were sitting on the terrace, steal across to a rendezvous at the Willow-pond, or cut across to it when you were at the post-office at Deerham?”
“I certainly did not,” said Lionel, quietly, taking the remarks only as they were meant—for an illustration. “It might, sir, as you observe, be difficult to prove a decided alibi. But”—he rose and bent to Mr. Verner with a bright smile, a clear, truthful eye—“I do not think you need one to believe me.”
“No, Lionel, I do not. Is John Massingbird in the dining-room?”
“He was when I left it.”
“Then go and send him in to me.”
John Massingbird was found and despatched to Mr. Verner, without any reluctance on his own part. He had been bestowing hard words upon Lionel for “taking up the time of the old man” just on the evening when he wanted to take it up himself. The truth was, John Massingbird was intending to depart the following morning, the Fates and Mr. Verner permitting him.
Their interview was a long one. Two hours, full, had they been closeted together when Robin Frost made his appearance again at Verner’s Pride, and craved once more an interview with Mr. Verner. “If it was only for a minute—only for a minute!” he implored.
Under the circumstances, the overwhelming sorrow which had fallen on the man, Lionel did not like again to deny him without first asking Mr. Verner. He went himself to the study.
“Come in,” called out Mr. Verner, in answer to the knock.
He was sitting in his chair as usual; John Massingbird was standing up, his elbow on the mantelpiece. That their conversation must have been of an exciting nature was evident, and Lionel could not help noticing the signs. John Massingbird had a scarlet streak on his sallow cheek, never seen there above once or twice in his life, and then caused by deep emotion. Mr. Verner, on his part, looked livid as clay. Robin Frost might come in.
Lionel called him, and he came in with Frederick Massingbird.
The man could hardly speak for agitation. He believed the verdict could not be set aside, he said: others had told him so besides Mr. Lionel. He had come to ask if Mr. Verner would offer a reward.
“A reward!” repeated Mr. Verner, mechanically, with the air of a man whose mind is far away.
