There was a short silence.
“I cannot answer you that question, Kate,” he said.
I grasped his hand feverishly. There was a red livid mark afterwards where my nails had dug into his wrist.
“Father, would you have me go mad?” I moaned. “You know that man. You knew who he was! You knew what he wanted—at the Yellow House.”
“It is true,” he answered.
“In the church I could have touched—could have touched him, he was so near to me—there was a terrible light in his face, his eyes were flaming upon you. He was like a man who suddenly understands. He called ‘Judas,’ and he pointed—at you.”
“He was mad,” my father answered, with a terrible calmness. “Every one could see that he was mad.”
“Mad!” I caught at the thought. I repeated the word to myself, and forced my recollection backwards with a little shudder to those few horrible moments. After all was there any hope that this might be the interpretation? My father’s voice broke in upon my thoughts.
“I do not wish to harp upon what must be a terribly painful subject to you, Kate. I only want your promise, you must take my word for everything else.”