I was not in the least frightened by her display of the pistol. To tell the truth, it was only with much difficulty that I kept from laughing. Still, I did so. The girl was plainly so overwrought that she was fairly frantic, and it would require the utmost circumspection on my part to keep her from precipitating matters before somebody came. The women folks, I fancied, would then need the assistance of a man; but for the present her condition demanded that I be at least considerate.
So I concluded to humor her.
"What is it you wish me to do?" I inquired, not forgetting my dignity.
She waved the insignificant weapon toward a writing desk.
"There are pens and ink and paper," she said, her voice tremulous with suppressed passion. "I want you to write down a plain, straightforward declaration that Royal Maillot is innocent, and then follow it with the reasons why you know him to be innocent—for you have those reasons. Doubtless it will include an exposure of the guilty; very well, this is the time for such a disclosure."
The amazing effrontery of the proposal made me gasp. Suppose I were to tell her that I believed her father to be the guilty man? Heavens and earth! Here was a pretty pass!
"Miss Fluette," I said at length, very gravely, "such a declaration from me would have no more weight than the sheet of paper itself. The matter is entirely out of my hands. Further than to procure the evidence necessary to convict the guilty, I have no influence whatever."
"So!" Her lip curled and her eyes flashed. "You would weave a rope about Royal's neck!"
"I would not," I emphatically disputed. "If Royal Maillot was instrumental in Felix Page's death, he was so innocently. He don't know now—"
She broke in, leaning with intense eagerness across the chair-back.