that the good old duelling days are over—the days when one man could not insult another with impunity."
"How savage you are, Bothwell, and against a man who was only in the exercise of his profession!"
"He had no right to question me as if I were a murderer," retorted Bothwell savagely. "Did he think that I spent my time in Plymouth plotting that girl's death? If I had made up my mind to push a woman over an embankment, I should not have wanted to spend a day in Plymouth in order to plan the business. A murder of that kind must be touch and go—no sooner thought of than done."
"All trouble would have been saved, my dear fellow, if you had given a straight answer to a simple question."
"To answer would have been to acknowledge his right to question me. No judge would have allowed counsel to have asked such a motiveless question. Nowhere except at a petty rustic inquiry would such a thing be permitted."
"I can only say that you are needlessly angry, Bothwell," said Wyllard. "Here comes Distin. You had better drive home with us."
"No, thank you; I shall be home before the house shuts up; but you'll see no more of me to-night."
"Good-night, then."
The Penmorval barouche was waiting before the porch of the Vital Spark—a great day for that rural hostelry when such a carriage could be seen waiting there—a great day at the bar, where all the strength of the establishment could not serve brandies-and-sodas and pale ales fast enough. Joseph Distin came tripping out, and took his place in the carriage beside Julian Wyllard. He had lingered at the inn for a few minutes' talk with the Coroner.
"Is not Mr. Grahame going back with us?" he asked, as they drove towards the town.
"No. You wounded his dignity by those questions of yours. He is a curious young man, and is easily offended."
"He is a very curious young man," answered the lawyer, with a thoughtful air.
He was looking at the landscape intently as they drove along the shady road, between deep banks and luxuriant hedges; but he would have found it rather difficult to say afterwards what kind of timber prevailed in the hedgerows, or what crops grew in the fields.
He was thoughtful all that evening, though he did his utmost to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Wyllard at dinner, talking to her of art, music, the drama, society, all the arts and graces and pleasures of life—doing everything in his power to distract her thoughts from that one grim theme which was the motive of his presence in that place.
