He sat down upon the sofa, and I leaned against the table.
“Has she gone back to London?” he asked.
“I do not know, I don’t think so. She said something about going back to the police station and wiring to London for a detective.”
“Ah!”
He had closed his eyes. I heard him draw in a long, sharp breath.
“She is a very determined young woman,” I continued. “Perhaps I ought not to say so, but she seemed to feel more angry than broken-hearted. She is vindictive, I am sure. She will do her best to find the man who killed her brother, and if she finds him she will have no mercy.”
My father rose up and walked to his writing table. His back was turned to me as he commenced to sort out some papers.
“Perhaps,” he said, “that is natural. It is very hard indeed to remember that vengeance belongs to God, and not to man. It is very hard indeed. Leave me now, Kate, and see that I am not disturbed for an hour.”
I closed his door softly, and walked out into the garden, across the lawn to the edge. Below me was the little plantation, ill-famed and suddenly notorious as the scene of that terrible tragedy. Every tree seemed clearly defined and beautiful in that soft autumn twilight. I looked at it with a curious sense of shuddering fear. That girl’s face, hungry for vengeance, the code of blood for blood—it was terrible. But the vengeance of God—more awful, if not so swift as hers—on whom was that to fall?