“Indeed,” smiled Mrs. MacDowell, turning from the vase of flowers.
“You are worse than a murderer,” suddenly said Freda, while her face quivered with new rage.
Mrs. MacDowell’s composure suffered a noticeable weakening. “My girl, I shall not tolerate such language!” she warned. “Be very careful.”
“You are capable of a crime more dastardly than murder, because it requires no courage—”
“Enough!”
“No,” fumed Freda. “It’s not enough. You’re going to hear it all for once. You have made me hate you.”
Something of latent power in her daughter’s manner put Mrs. MacDowell on guard.
“Why, Freda,” she exclaimed. “What on earth. I only meant to—”
“It’s what you’ve done that counts, Mother. I know he’s innocent. My God, he must be innocent!”
Just a moment later George MacDowell came into the room and found Freda in a chair with her head clasped in her hands, weeping, and his wife standing, evidently distressed. He looked from one to the other regretfully. Sadness was in his black eyes as he looked accusingly at his wife.