“I know what Duncan’s friendship amounts to,” he said harshly. “But isn’t your stepfather your friend?”
“My friend?” She echoed his words with a hopeless intonation that closed Dakota’s teeth like a vise. “I don’t know what has come over him,” she continued, looking up at Dakota, her eyes filled with wonder for the sympathy which she saw in his face and voice; “he has changed since he came out here; he is so selfish and heartless.”
“What’s he been doing? Hurting you?” She did not detect the anger in his voice, for he had kept it so low that she scarcely heard the words.
“Hurting me? No; he has not done anything to me. Don’t you know?” she said scornfully, certain that he was mocking her again—for how could his interest be genuine when he was a party to the plot to murder Doubler? Yet perhaps not—maybe Duncan had been lying. Determined to get to the bottom of the affair as quickly as possible, Sheila continued rapidly, her scorn giving way to eagerness. “Don’t you know?” And this time her voice was almost a plea. “What did father visit you for? Wasn’t it about Doubler? Didn’t he hire you to—to kill him?”
She saw his lips tighten strangely, his face grow pale, his eyes flash with some mysterious emotion, and she knew in an instant that he was guilty—guilty as her father!
“Oh!” she said, and the scorn came into her voice again. “Then it is true! You and my father have conspired to murder an inoffensive old man! You—you cowards!”
He winced, as though he had received an unexpected blow in the face, but almost immediately he smiled—a hard, cold, sneering smile which chilled her.
“Who has been telling you this?” The question came slowly, without the slightest trace of excitement.
“Duncan told me.”
“Duncan?” There was much contempt in his voice. “Not your father?”