Again that short, low cry—more like a hurt animal than a human being. And then, Anita Austin, the girl of mystery fell back into the depths of her chair, and closed her eyes.
“You needn’t faint—or pretend to,” admonished Miss Bascom, brutally; “you’re caught red-handed, and you know it, and you may as well give up.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t—” came in low moans, but the girl’s bravery had deserted her. Limp and despairing, she turned her great eyes toward Cray for help.
With an effort, he looked away from her pleading face, and said:
“What is the weapon? Where did you find it?”
“It is a stiletto—an embroidery stiletto—and I found it tucked down in the crevice between the back and seat of a stuffed chair in Miss Austin’s room. Did you put it there?”
She turned on the girl and fired the question at her with intentional suddenness, and though Anita uttered a scared, “No,” it was a palpable untruth.
“She did,” Miss Bascom went on. “You can see for yourself, Mr. Cray, she is lying.”
“But even if she is, Miss Bascom, I must ask you to cease torturing her! I can’t stand for such cruelty!”
Cray’s manhood revolted at the methods of the older woman who was causing such anguish to the poor child she accused.