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"Remember, I don't know anything yet, except that somehow you've brought Mary Virginia and me back to each other. That's enough for me. I haven't got any questions to ask." His voice faltered, and he gripped us by the hand in turn, with a force that made me, for one, wince and cringe. "And Padre Bughunter, you both know that I " he couldn't finish. "That we " choked Mary Virginia.
The state, knowing what he stood for, what he had accomplished for her farmers, what he meant to her agricultural interests, admired and trusted him. If Eustis wanted any gift within the power of the people to give, he had but to signify that desire. And yet, it had taken my Butterfly Man to show us this! "Bughunter," said Laurence, respectfully.
Cease speaking in parables, Bughunter, and tell us what's on your mind." The Butterfly Man hesitated for a moment. Then: "Why, it's this way," said he, slowly. "I hear things. A bit here and there, you see, as folks tell me. I put what I've heard together, and think it over. Of course I didn't need anybody to tell me Inglesby was sore because the Clarion got away from him. He expected it to die.
Some day when the real naturalist comes into his own, he will rank far, far above tricky senators and mutable governors!" The judge smiled. "Spoken like a true bughunter," said he. "As a matter of fact, this fellow is a remarkable man. Does he intend to remain here for good?" "Yes," said I, "I think he intends to remain here for good." I could not keep the pride out of my voice and eyes.
So Byron had wandered a hundred years before. These solitary rambles, however, were regarded with disfavour by schoolfellows who lacked John's imaginative temperament. The Caterpillar, for instance, protested, "Did I see you hobnobbing with a chaw the other day? I thought so; and you looked like a confounded bughunter."
"He will employ detectives," said I, uneasily. The Butterfly Man looked at me quizzically. "With an eagle eye and a walrus mustache," said he, grinning. "Sure. But if the plainclothes nose around, are they going to sherlock the parish priest and the town bughunter? We haven't got any interest in Mr. Inglesby's private correspondence, have we?
He laid his hand on John Flint's arm. "You're all right, Bughunter," said he, earnestly. "'Night, Padre." Then he was gone. "Do you think," said John Flint, when he had rejected every conjecture his mind presented as the possible cause of Mary Virginia's action, "that Inglesby could be at the bottom of this?" "I think," said I, "that you have an obsession where that man is concerned.
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