“Well, you would, if they did brutal murders and got themselves hanged,” Tony retorted, taking his elbow from the mantelpiece, and edging a little farther from Cecily, who was betraying an unmaidenly desire to follow him up.
“I shouldn't really—not a half-cousin,” the girl contradicted. “And he was mad, Tony. His father had been in an asylum more than once, only your aunt didn't know when she married him.”
“Half-aunt,” corrected Tony, “I'd like you to remember that half, Cecily.”
“Well, I will!” the girl promised. “And, Tony, I want to tell you that I hadn't the least idea that Thompson was the man that I thought was my father while I was at Mrs. Bechcombe's. It seems he put me there thinking to get some information he wanted through me, and which I am thankful to say he didn't. I never recognized him, he looked so different. Then after the murder when he told me, though he said he wasn't guilty—I couldn't help doubting.”
“You might have trusted me,” Tony said reproachfully.
Cecily burst into tears. “You might trust me now.”
Tony's heart was melted at once. He drew the sobbing girl into his arms. “I would trust you with my life, sweetheart—but I——”
“Ah, you shall not say but!” the girl cried, clinging to him. “You do love me, don't you, Tony?” lifting her face to his.
“You know I do!” said Anthony, his sombre eyes brightening as he looked down at her.
“Then that is all that matters,” said Cecily decidedly, “isn't it, Anthony?”