Elizabeth had risen to her feet. She was standing now before the fire, her left elbow resting upon the mantelpiece, a trifle of silver gleaming in her right hand.
“Father,” she said, “there is no danger in life for those who know no fear. Look at me.”
His eyes sought hers, fascinated.
“If he should find me out,” she continued, “it would be no such terrible thing, after all. It would be the end.”
Her fingers disclosed the little ornament she was carrying—a tiny pistol. She slipped it back into her pocket. The man was wondering how such a thing as this came to be his daughter.
“You have courage, Elizabeth,” he whispered.
“I have courage,” she assented, “because I have brains. I never allow myself to be in a position where I should be likely to get the worst of it. Ever since the day when he turned so suddenly against me, I have been careful.”
Her father leaned towards her.
“Elizabeth,” he said, “I never really understood. What was it that came over him so suddenly? One day he was your slave, the next I think he would have murdered you if he could.”
She shrugged her shoulders.