"Then why take any notice of the matter at all?" I said. "All that you can disclose is that he came from the land and not from the sea, and that he asked where I lived. Why trouble yourself or me about the matter at all? There really isn't any necessity. Some one else probably saw him besides you, and they will soon find their way to this woman."
"It was only to me," she murmured, "that he spoke of you."
"Do you believe," I asked, "that I murdered him?"
She shuddered.
"No, of course I don't," she declared.
"Then why all this nervousness and mystery?" I asked. "I have no fear of anything which might happen. Why should you be afraid?"
"I am not afraid," she said slowly, "but there is something about it which I do not understand. Ever since that morning you have avoided me."
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed.
"It is not nonsense," she answered. "It is the truth. You used to come sometimes to see father—and now you never come near the place. It is—too bad of you," she went on, with a little sob. "I thought that after that morning, and my promising to do what you asked, that we should be greater friends than ever. Instead of that you have never been near us since. And I don't care who knows it. I am miserable."
She was leaning against the arm of my chair. It was clearly my duty to administer the consolation which the situation demanded. I realized, however, that the occasion was critical, and I ignored her proximity.