She looked again at the note which intimated that her father had gone to town, and from the straggling, scratching character of the handwriting she gathered that he must have been greatly agitated when he wrote it. Afterward she went to the kitchen, and skillfully questioned Mrs. Daw and Tilda about their master's departure. Both declared that he had said nothing to them about it. It seemed likely, then, that he had made up his mind on a sudden impulse and gone off in a hurry.
Brenda wondered vainly what it could all mean, and then rebuked herself severely for her suspicions. After all, her father would no doubt be able to give good reason for his hurried departure when he returned; the surrounding circumstances, strange as they were, might prove to be all that was natural and obvious in the light of what he would have to say.
The dawn had brought wisdom to Mrs. Daw and the housemaid too, for they no longer spoke of giving notice. They were chattering like parrots about the murder, many exaggerated and wholly imaginary details of which had been supplied by butcher, baker and milkman. But Brenda learned that as yet no one was definitely suspected of the crime, and that the villagers were hopelessly bewildered at its committal.
About the stranger no word was said; and somewhat relieved in her mind, Brenda gave her orders for the day, and returned to the study. She sat down before the fire--which was lighted, as usual, in spite of the summer warmth--and gave herself up to thoughts of Harold. These were pleasant enough, but occasionally there would come the recollection of Van Zwieten and his calm insistence that she should be his wife. Then she shuddered, for the man fascinated her as a serpent fascinates a bird. There were moments when it came upon her that he might get his way in spite of her repulsion.
Idly looking into the fire, she noticed a fine white ash under the grate, disposed in a regular line. At first she took no heed of it, but presently she became aware that this was no coal débris, and her eye travelled along the line until she found an unburnt piece of the material, the remainder of which was ash. Growing pale, she bent down and picked up a tiny piece of crape. Undoubtedly it was crape--there was enough saved from the burning to swear by. Brenda turned faint; from the long narrow outline of the white ash, from the scrap of material she held in her hand, it was certain that her father had flung a crape scarf under the grate, and had set fire to it. And she guessed that the scarf was the one worn by the stranger--the scarf from which the morsel in Harold's possession had been torn. Motionless and terrified, she pondered over the meaning of this destruction.
Before she could come to any conclusion, there was a shadow thrown across the floor, and Brenda, her nerves shaken, jumped up with a slight scream to see Van Zwieten step into the room through the French window. He looked unusually well pleased with himself, and smiled blandly when he saw her. In fact, she detected an exulting expression in his blue eyes, which vaguely terrified her. With the instinct to conceal the discovery of the burnt scarf, she thrust the scrap into her pocket, and turned to welcome Van Zwieten with a smile.
He looked at the fire, at her action, and seemed to connect the two. But he said nothing. No doubt he thought she had been about to burn something, and that he had interrupted her.
"Aha, Miss Scarse," he said politely, "I have been walking in the orchards to have a look at the spot where I murdered that man."
Brenda was annoyed at his satire, and rather foolishly showed her annoyance.
"You should make allowance for my state of mind last night," she said irritably. "I spoke without thinking. Besides, I accused you of killing Harold, not poor Mr. Malet."