"You are my father in name, nothing more," she said coldly. "In no way have you ever attempted to gain my affection. You kept me at school as long as you could, and only when it was forced upon you did you take charge of my life. I have no love for you, nor have you for me; but I always respected you until now."
Scarse winced, and his parchment-like skin grew pink. "And why don't you respect me now?"
"Because I am certain that, even if you did not kill him, you had something to do with the death of Mr. Malet!"
"That is untrue," replied he, composedly.
Brenda looked at him keenly. "The murderer wore a crape scarf. Of that I have direct evidence. I also know that you burnt that scarf."
"How do you know that?" he snapped.
"I found the ashes under the grate, and I picked up a scrap of the crape. Nevertheless, in spite of your admission, I am not certain now in my own mind that it was you who wore it. Father, you were not the man whom Harold met."
"I am--I was," insisted Scarse, doggedly. "I put on that old coat because I couldn't find the one I usually wear. As to the scarf, I wore it in token of my sorrow for the way in which this country is being ruined by its statesmen."
But Brenda declined to accept this explanation.
"You are not mad, father," she said quietly; "and only a madman would wear yards of crape round his neck in mourning for the delinquencies of his country's leaders; and only a madman would have killed Mr. Malet!" She paused, and, as he made no reply, continued: "The man Harold mistook for you was seen by other people, who also made the same mistake. What he came to Chippingholt for I know as well as you do. He came with the full intention of killing Mr. Malet."