“Yes—oh, yes!” she answered.
He was silent for a moment or two, and she knew that his look searched her unsparingly. Then: “I don’t believe you are telling me the truth,” he said. “But I shall soon know.”
He turned abruptly to the man on the floor. “Get up!” he said.
Rotherby had drawn his hands over his face. He rolled on to his side as the curt command reached him, and in a few seconds, grabbing at a chair, he dragged himself to his feet. But his face was ashen and he could not stand. He dropped into the chair with a groan.
Frances went to the washing-stand, squeezed out a sponge in cold water and brought it to him. He took it in a dazed fashion and mopped the blood from his nose and mouth.
Arthur stood by, massive and motionless, his face set in iron lines. He was like an executioner, grim as doom, waiting for his victim. He made no comment when Frances brought towel and basin to Rotherby’s side and helped him.
But at length, as Rotherby began to show signs of recovery, he waved her to one side.
“Now, you! Let’s have your version! What are you and Miss Thorold doing here?”
Rotherby looked at him through narrowed lids. His face was very evil as he made reply. “I chance to live here.”
“I know that. And you’ll die here without any chance about it if you don’t choose to give me a straight answer to my questions. What did you bring her here for?”