“Perhaps we could get him down here,” suggested the squire.

Dick gave him a swift look.  “I’ve thought of that,” he said.

“Well?” said Fielding.

Dick hesitated for a moment.  “I’m not sure that I want him,” he said.  “He and Saltash are friends for one thing.  And there are besides—­various reasons.”

“You don’t like Saltash?” said the squire.

Dick laughed a little.  “I don’t hate him—­though I feel as if I ought to.  He’s a queer fish.  I don’t trust him.”

“You’re jealous!” said Fielding.

Dick nodded.  “Very likely.  He has an uncanny attraction for women.  I wanted to kick him the last time we met.”

“And what did Juliet say?”

“Oh, Juliet read me a lecture and told me I wasn’t to.  But I think the less we see of each other the better—­if I am to keep on my best behaviour, that is.”

“It’s a good thing someone can manage you,” remarked Fielding.  “Juliet is a wonderful peacemaker.  But even she couldn’t keep you from coming to loggerheads with Jack apparently.  What was that fight about?”

Dirk’s brows contracted.  “It wasn’t a fight, sir,” he said shortly.  “I’ve never fought Jack in my life.  He did an infernal thing, and I made him quit, that’s all.”

“What did he do?” asked the squire.  Then as Dick made a gesture of refusal:  “Damn it, man, he was in my employment anyway!  I’ve a right to know why he cleared out.”

Dick pushed back his chair abruptly and rose.  He turned his back on the squire while he poked the blazing logs with his foot.  Then:  “Yes, you’ve a perfect right to know,” he said, speaking jerkily, his head bent.  “And of course I always meant to tell you.  It won’t appeal to you in the least.  But Juliet understands—­at least in part.  He was responsible for—­my boy’s death.  That’s why I made him go.”

It was the first time that he had voluntarily spoken of Robin since the day that he and Juliet had followed him to his grave.  He brought out the words now with tremendous effort, and having spoken he ceased to kick at the fire and became absolutely still.

The squire sat at the table, staring at him.  For some seconds the silence continued, then irritably he broke it.

“Well?  Go on, man!  That isn’t the whole of the story.  What do you mean by—­responsible?  He didn’t shove him over the cliff, I suppose?”

“No,” Dick said.  “He didn’t do that.  I almost wish he had.  It would have been somehow—­more endurable.”

Again he became silent, and suddenly to the squire sitting frowning at the table there came a flash of intuition that told him he could not continue.  He got up sharply, went to Dick, still frowning, and laid an impulsive arm across his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, my lad,” he said.

Dick made a slight movement as if the caress were not wholly welcome, but after a moment he reached up and grasped the squire’s hand.