“Why, only that we’re—why, hang it all, decent people don’t do those things.”
“Decent people don’t commit murder, either,” said Ford, very gravely.
“No, I know that. Well, Natalie begged me not to quarrel with father,—said she could manage him herself. And I thought she meant by being sweet to him, and all that, and I got mad at her, and—I walked off and left her there.”
“Without a word?”
“No. I told her I was going to give the dogs a run. I was going to, too, but as I walked away, I fell a-thinking, and I just strolled round the place alone.”
“Whom did you see?”
“Nobody at all. Maybe Courtenay or Mr. Wadsworth or some of those people passed me, I don’t know. I was just thinking about Natalie, and then Halpin came running out and told me to come in the house, my father was ill.”
“And you went right in?”
“Yes, and when I saw what had happened, I felt afraid Natalie had killed him—and I ran out and tried to make the window frame look as if a burglar had broken in. I suppose it was foolish.”
“It certainly was. But I don’t blame you. It was natural to try to shield the girl you loved from possible suspicion.”