Chapter III: Kitty Interviews Tim

"I'VE spoken to Tom Hatch about getting you another rabbit," Bob informed his sister on the afternoon subsequent to the one on which they had found her late pet dead. "And he says he believes his brother will be able to let you have one, for his doe had young a few weeks back, and he wants to get rid of them all before leaving the place."

The Hatch boys were schoolfellows of Bob's, who were about to leave the place with their parents to take up their abode in a neighbouring town. Kitty had purchased the rabbit, which had come to such an untimely end, from Tom for a shilling, and was very desirous to replace it.

"Will he be willing to sell me another for the same price?" she inquired practically.

"Oh, yes," was the response. "You may be sure of that."

"And will it be a white Angora like the other?"

"I suppose so; he didn't say; you needn't have it if you don't fancy it, you know. I think we had better move the hutch closer to the house, near to the back door."

"Yes, then the servants will be able to keep their eyes on it, and see it is not interfered with. Oh, Bob, I cannot help thinking that the boy next door may know how the hutch got overturned yesterday, for he's always watching us! At any rate, I shall ask him; there can be no harm in doing that."

"I should not have anything to say to him, if I were you," advised Bob; "but please yourself, of course."

Thus it came about that whilst Tim, who was feeling much bored with his own company and was very dispirited, was doing a little gardening by way of passing the time after tea that evening, he heard himself addressed by Kitty's now familiar voice:

"Hi, you boy—I don't know your name—I want to speak to you."

The hoe with which he was working dropped from Tim's hands, so startled was he, and the expression of his face was one of alarm as he looked around hastily; but he could not see the little girl, though he ran his eyes from end to end of the partition wall.

"Here I am," she said, with a merry laugh as she observed his bewilderment. "Why, you seem quite scared," she continued. "Don't you see me? I'm in the apple tree."

There she was sure enough, perched high on a branch of the big apple tree at the bottom of her own garden, from which position she could overlook Mr. Shuttleworth's domain.

"Oh," exclaimed Tim, "now I see you. I couldn't think where your voice came from."

A smile, which was rather embarrassed, though certainly not unfriendly, flickered over his plain, freckled countenance as he spoke.

"I want to speak to you for a minute about something important," said Kitty.

"Oh!" He wondered uneasily what "something important" might be.

"You remember meeting us—my brother and me—in the town yesterday morning?"

"Yes," assented Tim. "So you did see me. I was positive of it at the time, though you kept your head turned aside."

"That was because I was eating sweets, and there was a big caramel in my mouth," she said hastily, looking somewhat abashed. "Not that I should have spoken to you, anyway," she went on truthfully. "You couldn't have expected either of us to do that after—but never mind that now! What I want to know is, where did you go afterwards?"

"Where did I go afterwards? I—I—why do you ask? What does it matter to you?"

What a rude boy he was, Kitty thought. She flushed with annoyance; but she was so anxious to ascertain if he could throw any light on the matter which weighed upon her mind that she answered pacifically:

"It doesn't matter to me, except that I thought, if you came straight home, you might have noticed if there was any one prowling about our garden. The fact is," speaking in a confidential tone, "I had a dear little rabbit in a big box against the wall, and some one upset the box and killed the rabbit. Perhaps you know that?"

"I—I—yes," Tim admitted; "I saw you all in the garden when—when you found it dead, and—and—I was sorry—"

He paused in confusion, whilst Kitty regarded him more favourably, for he really did look sorry, quite distressed, in fact.

"It was a sweet little creature," she said with a sigh, "and it was so sad to find it killed. I daresay you thought me silly and babyish to cry, but really I couldn't help it. I had only bought it the night before; I gave a shilling for it. That wasn't what made me cry, though; it was because it was such a dear, so soft and as white as snow." She paused and blinked away a tear, then proceeded more briskly: "Well, what I want to know is, did you see any one interfering with the rabbit hutch?"

"No," Tim answered, so hesitatingly, that Kitty shot a glance full of suspicion at him. "Perhaps some strange dog got into your garden," he suggested, feeling himself to be very mean-spirited as he spoke, "or perhaps the wind—"

"Oh, it couldn't have been the wind," she interrupted impatiently, "although there was a strong breeze blowing, but not strong enough to upset a heavy box like that. Bob thinks a big dog must have pushed the hutch over in trying to get it open, but I don't know what to think, except that you know something about it," she declared with a ring of decision in her tone.

Tim was so taken aback at this sudden and direct charge that he had no answer ready. The colour rushed to his face in a flood of crimson, then, receding, left him quite pale.

"What do you mean?" he gasped at length, assuming anger to hide his dismay. "How dare you say that I know something about it?"

"You said you'd pay us out because Snip had spoilt your garden—we didn't know he'd done it, so it wasn't our fault—and I thought you might have killed my rabbit out of spite."

"I never knew your rabbit was dead till I saw it in your arms," declared Tim solemnly. "I hadn't the faintest idea there was a rabbit in the box, I didn't know what was there."

"But did you overturn the box?" persisted Kitty.

For a moment Tim hesitated. He still craved for the friendship of Kitty and her brother, and he thought if he acknowledged his guilt they would never have anything to do with him, so, though he was usually truthful, on this occasion he gave way to the temptation of the moment, and answered:

"No, certainly not."

He did not look at Kitty as he spoke; and when several minutes had elapsed without her having addressed him again, he plucked up courage to glance furtively towards the apple tree, he found the little girl had gone. He did not know that he had lied in vain, or guess that Kitty, who was very keen of discernment, believed he held the key of the mystery which surrounded her rabbit's death.

"If that boy next door didn't throw over the box himself, he knows who did it," Kitty declared to her brother after she had given him an account of her interview with Tim.

"Perhaps he was only pretending to know, just to make himself seem important," suggested Bob. "Some fellows are like that. What good have you done by speaking to him, Kitty?"

"None at all," she was bound to admit; "and I wish I had let him be. He seemed sorry my rabbit was dead; but he's a very odd boy, he hardly had a word to say for himself."

"He had plenty of words yesterday when he was in a passion," Bob rejoined with a laugh. "Cook hears that he is Mr. Shuttleworth's nephew, and that he's going to stay here all the summer," he proceeded to explain. "He will have rather a dull time, I should say, for Mr. Shuttleworth doesn't appear to take much notice of him, does he?"

"No, indeed," agreed Kitty. "If he was a nicer boy, he might be friendly with us; but he's a dreadful temper and I believe he tells lies."

"To whom are you giving such a bad character, Kitty?" asked Mrs. Glanville, coming into the room where her children were talking at that moment, holding an open letter in her hand.

"The boy next door, mother," the little girl answered promptly.

"What do you know against him, my dear?"

Kitty told all she knew—of the exhibition of temper Tim had given them on the previous day, and of her suspicion against him, which she was obliged to admit her brother did not share.

"I don't think you ought to jump to the conclusion that the boy has told you an untruth, Kitty," Mrs. Glanville said gravely. "If you have a doubt—well, give him the benefit of the doubt, my dear. Strangely enough I was coming to speak to you about the boy next door. I find Mr. Shuttleworth is his uncle, and that he has come to pay him a long visit because he was very ill a month or so ago, and the doctor has advised his not returning to school for the summer term. His home is in Dublin—"

"That accounts for his accent then," Bob broke in. "I knew he was a Paddy the minute I heard him speak."

"It would be wonderful if he had no touch of brogue, considering he has lived all his life in Ireland," Mrs. Glanville remarked smilingly.

"How do you know that, mother?" inquired Kitty. "Have you been talking to Mr. Shuttleworth?"

"No; but I've had a letter from Mr. Shuttleworth's sister-in-law, telling me her eldest boy—Tim, she calls him, short for Timothy, I suppose—is staying with his uncle here, and asking me to be kind to him."

"How extraordinary!" exclaimed Kitty, whilst her brother gave a soft whistle of surprise.

"Not so extraordinary as you think, my dear, seeing that Tim's mother was once a school-friend of mine. She was an Irish girl, and I knew she had married some one called Shuttleworth, but it never occurred to me that her husband might be in any way connected with our neighbour. Tim's mother does not know we are living next door to her brother-in-law; she simply addressed her letter to this town hoping that I should get it, and as we are the only Glanvilles in the place, it came direct."

"And now, what do you mean to do, mother?" Kitty asked eagerly, as Mrs. Glanville paused and glanced through her letter once more.

"I shall call next door to see my old friend's son to-morrow," was the response, "and most probably bring him back with me to tea. You must not be prejudiced against him, children; if he is anything like his mother in disposition, you will be sure to get on with him, and there will be no difficulty in your making friends with him, for she was one of the kindest-hearted girls I ever knew. Don't you think, when he perched himself on the ladder and stared at you over the wall, he might have been wishful of making your acquaintance? That is my opinion. Had I been in your place, Bob, I fancy I should have spoken to him; he must be about your age—a trifle younger perhaps, but not much. You must try to be friends with him—a stranger in a strange land. I daresay he has been home-sick, poor child!"

"What a nuisance!" exclaimed Bob, as soon as his mother had left the room. "You will see that boy will spoil our holidays—or what is left of them. We shall have to be civil to him—which he certainly has not been to us!"