“What expedition?” questioned Richard.  “The murder?”

“The riding after Afy.  Richard, where is Afy?”

Richard Hare lifted his eyes in surprise.  “How should I know?  I was just going to ask you.”

Mr. Carlyle paused.  He thought Richard’s answer an evasive one.  “She disappeared immediately after the funeral; and it was thought—­in short, Richard, the neighborhood gave her credit for having gone after and joined you.”

“No! did they?  What a pack of idiots!  I have never seen or heard of her, Carlyle, since that unfortunate night.  If she went after anybody, it was after Thorn.”

“Was the man good-looking?”

“I suppose the world would call him so.  Afy thought such an Adonis had never been coined, out of fable.  He had shiny black hair and whiskers, dark eyes and handsome features.  But his vain dandyism spoilt him; would you believe that his handkerchiefs were soaked in scent?  They were of the finest cambric, silky as a hair, as fine as the one Barbara bought at Lynneborough and gave a guinea for; only hers had a wreath of embroidery around it.”

Mr. Carlyle could ascertain no more particulars, and it was time Richard went indoors.  They proceeded up the path.  “What a blessing it is the servants’ windows don’t look this way,” shivered Richard, treading on Mr. Carlyle’s heels.  “If they should be looking out upstairs!”

His apprehensions were groundless, and he entered unseen.

Mr. Carlyle’s part was over; he left the poor banned exile to his short interview with his hysterical and tearful mother, Richard nearly as hysterical as she, and made the best of his way home again, pondering over what he had heard.

The magistrates made a good evening of it.  Mr. Carlyle entertained them to supper—­mutton chops and bread and cheese.  They took up their pipes for another whiff when the meal was over, but Miss Carlyle retired to bed; the smoke, to which she had not been accustomed since her father’s death, had made her head ache and her eyes smart.  About eleven they wished Mr. Carlyle good-night, and departed, but Mr. Dill, in obedience to a nod from his superior, remained.

“Sit down a moment, Dill; I want to ask you a question.  You are intimate with the Thorns, of Swainson; do they happen to have any relative, a nephew or cousin, perhaps, a dandy young fellow?”

“I went over last Sunday fortnight to spend the day with young Jacob,” was the answer of Mr. Dill, one wider from the point than he generally gave.  Mr. Carlyle smiled.

“Young Jacob!  He must be forty, I suppose.”

“About that.  But you and I estimate age differently, Mr. Archibald.  They have no nephew; the old man never had but those two children, Jacob and Edward.  Neither have they any cousin.  Rich men they are growing now.  Jacob has set up his carriage.”

Mr. Carlyle mused, but he expected the answer, for neither had he heard of the brothers Thorn, tanners, curriers, and leather-dressers, possessing a relative of the name.  “Dill,” said he, “something has arisen which, in my mind, casts a doubt upon Richard Hare’s guilt.  I question whether he had anything to do with the murder.”