No answer.
“Your silence will do. What can I say but that it was like you? To traffic upon a helpless man’s miserable apprehensions for your own sordid ends—and that man your father! To do this while holding a like threat over another’s head—your brother’s—still for your own pitiful ends. And all the time who knows but you may be the murderer?”
“I am not the murderer. You persist, and—and it’s too cruel.”
“Cruel! To you? Who killed Modred?”
“I believe it was dad.”
“I believe upon my soul it’s a lie!”
“He thinks it himself, anyhow.”
“Is it any good saying to you that a man of his habits, as he was then, might be driven to believe anything of himself?”
“Why did he have the braces in his pocket, then?”
“He had carried the boy up-stairs—you know that. He had been bathing and his things were scattered.”