"Why do you make these—these accusations?" she demanded. "You knew that my father was an optician—one of the best known in the city," she cried, searching Craig's face.
Kennedy nodded implacably.
"I haven't made any accusations," he returned, then added, directly, "But I assumed that you knew something of his business while he was alive."
"I do not know by what right you assume that I knew anything of the sort," she fenced. "Girls were not supposed to learn trades or professions in those days."
Honora, in spite of her assumption of a quiet tone, was almost hysterical. The mounting flush on her face showed that she was keen with emotion, that it was only by an almost superhuman effort that she controlled the volcano of her feelings.
Kennedy could see that it was only by such an effort that she managed to maintain her composure. He must have known that to press the case would have resulted in a situation such as might have advanced us fairly far toward the truth. Yet he did not follow farther any advantage he might have.
Evidently, Kennedy was content to let the seed which he had planted during this visit germinate. Or was he reluctant to allow McCabe over the dictagraph hear more that might be reported to Doyle on which Doyle might continue to base wrong conclusions? Desperately I clung to this last explanation.
As far as Honora was concerned, now, there was no use in our staying longer. Kennedy had deliberately thrown away a chance to drive her into further admissions. The interval had given her the time she needed. Now she was keenly on guard and mistress again of herself.
Secretly I was rather glad. It was better to let the information and suspicion that had been aroused work of itself.
"You are not yourself, Mrs. Wilford," suddenly apologized Kennedy. "It is not fair to you. Think over some of the things I have been forced to say to you. Perhaps you will see matters in another light. Good-by."