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I went round by the far gate after hearing he was there, and, cutting across the wood, I met Montague Nevitt in the path by The Tangle. I went there to meet him; I went there to confront him; but not of malice prepense to murder him. I wanted to question him about a family matter. Why I needed to question him no one henceforth shall ever know.
Guy turned to Cyril with an appealing look. "Cyril," he, cried, "what does all this mean? Is Nevitt dead? It's the very first word I've ever heard about it." Cyril's heart gave a bound of wild relief at those words. The moment Guy said it his brother knew he spoke the simple truth. "Why, Guy," he answered, with a fierce burst of joy, "then you're not a murderer after all? You're innocent!
The judge rose again, solemnly, in all the majesty of his ermine. "The prisoner is discharged," he said, in a loud, clear voice. "I am here to do justice justice against myself. I enter a verdict of not guilty." Then he turned to the polices "I am your prisoner," he went on, in a broken, rambling way. "I give myself in charge for the manslaughter of Montague Nevitt. Manslaughter, not murder.
A call would be made at once to the full extent of the nominal capital. And he would have to find three thousand pounds down to meet the demand on his credit immediately. Nevitt hadn't three thousand pounds in the world to pay. The little he possessed beyond his salary was locked up, here and there, in speculative undertakings, where he couldn't touch it except at long notice.
The doctor sat down on a stump to unbuckle his skates. Nevitt had taken his off a few moments before, but Primrose had begged that they might skate all the way down. "Can I do nothing to assist?" asked the other. "Go on with your prize-winning," said the captain haughtily. "You may run over someone else if you have good luck."
The opening formalities were soon got over, and then, amid a deep hush of breathless lips, Guy Waring, of Staple Inn, Holborn, gentleman, was put upon his trial for the wilful murder of Montague Nevitt, eighteen months before, at Mambury in Devon. Guy, standing in the dock, looked puzzled and distracted rather than alarmed or terrified.
Granville Kelmscott. I don't mean to see him again. I don't mean to marry him." Nevitt took his cue at once, like a clever hand that he was, and followed it up remorselessly.
Justice Gildersleeve still finds himself too unwell to return to England for the Western Assizes, and his place will, therefore, most probably be taken by Mr. Justice Atkins. The calendar is a heavy one, and includes the interesting case of Mr. Guy Waring, charged with the wilful murder of Montague Nevitt, at Mambury, in Devonshire." Elma laid down the paper with a swimming head.
If Guy had dared, to be sure, he might have gone straight to a police-station, and got an inspector to telegraph along the line to stop the thief with his booty at Basingstoke or Salisbury. But Guy didn't dare. For to interfere with Nevitt now by legal means would be to risk the discovery of his own share in the forgery.
At each bend of the footpath, as it threaded its way through the tortuous dell, following close the elbows of the bickering little stream, he expected to come full in sight of Nevitt. But, gaze as he would, no Nevitt appeared. He must have gone on, Guy thought, and come out at the other end, into the upland road, of which the porters at Mambury Station had told him.
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