"No, no," cried Scarse, shrinking back. "Impossible at this hour, and on such a night."
"The storm is dying away," said the Dutchman, derisively. "However, if you don't care to come, I can go myself."
"I will go with you," cried Brenda, springing to her feet.
"For you, Miss Scarse, I think it is hardly wise. You are very much upset. Had you not better go to bed?"
"I couldn't sleep with this on my mind. I must know if it is Harold or not. If it is, I am certain you shot him, and until I know the truth I don't let you out of my sight."
"Very good." Van Zwieten bowed and smiled. "Come, then, and guide me."
"Brenda, you can't go out now. I forbid you--it is not fit or proper."
"What do I care for propriety in such a case as this?" cried Brenda, in a passion. "Come with me then, father."
"No, I can't--I am too ill."
Van Zwieten cast an amused look at Scarse, and the old man winced again. He turned away and poured himself out a glass of brandy. Without taking any further notice of him, Brenda put on her wet cloak and left the room, followed almost immediately by the Dutchman. Van Zwieten had many questions to ask his host, for he knew a good deal, and guessed more; but this was not the time for cross-examination. It was imperative that the identity of the deceased should be ascertained, and Van Zwieten wished to be on the spot when the discovery was made. As he left the room he heard the glass in Scarse's trembling hand clink against the decanter, and the sound made him smile. He guessed the cause of such perturbation.