"Father, did you shoot Mr. Malet?"
"I? No. Are you mad, girl, to say such a thing? How dare you--to me, your father?" Indignation apparently choked further speech on the part of Mr. Scarse.
"God help me! yes, you are my father," wailed Brenda. She threw herself face downwards on the sofa and sobbed bitterly. There was that in her father's nervous denial which impelled her to believe that her suspicions were correct. If he had not himself killed Malet, at least he knew who had. But at the present moment Brenda firmly believed that his own hand had fired the fatal shot.
"Brenda, listen to me; you speak foolishly; we must understand one another. What grounds have you for making such a terrible accusation against me?"
The old man's voice was now steady, and he spoke harshly. He poked the fire and expanded his thin, dry hands to the blaze. It was a haggard face which the spurting flames illumined; but the mouth was firmly set, and there was a hard, dogged expression in the eyes. As Brenda made no reply, and still continued to sob, he cast an impatient glance at her prostrate figure and went over to the sideboard. Thence he returned with a glass of wine.
"Drink this, Brenda, and don't be a fool. I did not murder the man."
The girl sat up and slowly drank the wine. Her father crossed over to the door and locked it, upon which the girl laughed contemptuously.
"Do you think I have the police in waiting?" she said.
"That is not the way to speak to your father," snarled he, sitting down.
But the wine had put new life into Brenda, and she was regaining courage with her returning color. Not by this man--the father who had been no father to her--was she to be daunted. With a quick movement she removed the lampshade, and the sudden spread of the light showed her Mr. Scarse biting his nails with anything but a reassuring expression on his face. At that moment Brenda felt she hated the author of her being.