“Tell it to me!” he commanded.
I did so, without hesitation, looking him full in the face with heightened colour, but speaking with all the determination which I felt in my heart.
“I have made up my mind that some day I will find the man Francis—the man who murdered my father!”
He was silent. I could almost have fancied that he was in some measure moved by my words, and the refined beauty of his dark face was heightened for a moment by the strange, sad look which flashed across it. Then he rose and took up his riding-whip from the table.
“A boyish enthusiasm,” he remarked contemptuously, as he made his way towards the door. “Where the cleverest detectives in England have failed, you hope to succeed. Well, I wish you success. The rascal deserves to swing, certainly. You will hear further from me in a day or two. Good-morning!”
He left the room abruptly and I followed him, stepping bareheaded out into the sunshine to look about for Jim, who was leading his horse up and down the road.
When I returned, Mr. Ravenor was still standing upon the doorstep watching me intently.
“I am going back to speak to your mother for a moment,” he said slowly, withdrawing his eyes from my face at last. “No; stop where you are!” he added imperatively. “I wish to speak to her alone.”
I obeyed him and wandered about the orchard until I saw him come out and gallop furiously away across the park. Then I hurried into the house.
“Mother!” I exclaimed, calling out to her before I had opened the door of the parlour—“mother, what do you—”