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And, in short," he continued, with added emphasis, "in short, my friends, Barthorpe must be visited, interviewed, questioned not merely by his legal advisers, but by some friend, and the very person to do it" here he turned and laid his great hand on Peggie's shoulder "is you, my dear!" "I!" exclaimed Peggie. "You, certainly! Nobody better.
"What won't do?" Barthorpe had asked. "He's beginning to make eyes at Peggie," Jacob had answered with another chuckle, "and though Peggie's a girl of sense, that fellow's too good looking to have about a house. I never ought to have had him. However he goes."
Peggie impulsively stretched out a hand and Selwood, not trusting himself, affected not to see it. To take Peggie's hand at that moment would have been to let loose a flood of words which he was resolved not to utter just then, if ever. He moved across to the desk and pretended to sort and arrange some loose papers.
Tertius, who had advanced as far as the door on his way out of the room, came back to Peggie's side in a fashion suggestive of deep mystery, walking on the tips of his toes and putting a finger to his lips as he drew near his chair.
The phraseology of the mysterious note; the clandestine fashion in which it had been brought under Peggie's notice; the extraordinary method adopted of procuring an interview with her all these things had aroused Selwood's suspicions, and his natural sense of caution was at its full stretch as he walked across to the car, wondering what he and Peggie were about to confront.
"The answer is plain if astonishing. I have managed to get mixed up in this matter of Jacob Herapath's murder! That sounds odd, doesn't it? nevertheless, it's true. But we can't go into that now. And I cannot do more than tell you that I simply bring a message and want an answer. My dear!" she continued, laying a hand on Peggie's arm, "you do not wish to see Barthorpe Herapath hanged?"
Miss Peggie's American, and so's the House Surgeon, an' it's the next best thing to bein' Irish which every one can't be, the Lord knows. Now them trusters is heathen, an' they don't know nothin' more'n heathen, an' we ought to be easy on 'em for bein' so ignorant." "They ken us 'll nae mair be gettin' weel," said Sandy, mournfully. "Aw, ye're talkin' foolish entirely.
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