“It is a matter of some importance,” he said, gravely. “I wish I could tell you. You look sensible, like a girl who might be told.”
His words did not offend me in the least. On the contrary, I think that I was pleased.
“Mr. Deville,” I said, firmly, “I agree with you. I am a girl who might be told. I only wish that my father would be open with me. There is some mystery around, some danger. I can see it all in your faces; I can feel it in the air. That man’s death”—I pointed into the wood—“is concerned in it. What does it all mean? I want to know. I want you to tell me.”
“Tell me who that man was, and who killed him?” I asked, firmly. “I have a right to know. I am determined to know!”
He was certainly paler underneath the dark tan of his sun and weather-burned cheeks. Yet he answered me steadily enough.
“Take my advice, Miss Ffolliot, ask no questions about it, have no thought about it. Put it away from you. I speak for your happiness, which, perhaps, I am more interested in than you would believe.”
Afterwards I wondered at that moment of embarrassment, and the little break in his voice. Just then the excitement of the moment made me almost oblivious of it.
“You are telling me!” I cried.
“I am not telling you; I am not telling you because I do not know. For God’s sake ask me no more questions! Come and see Adelaide Fortress. You were going there, were you not?”
“Yes, I was going there,” I admitted.