"No," said Cyril, looking at her searchingly in the light of the small lamp. "Your feet and hands are too delicate, and your features too clearly cut, and your whole bearing too well bred, to be the child of such a man. Huxham and his sister are plebeians: you are an aristocrat. I am quite sure."
Bella coloured at his praise of her beauty. "Perhaps what Mr. Pence says may explain why the money was not left to me."
Cyril nodded. "If you are not Huxham's daughter, of course he would not leave you the money. But it was strange that he should tell Pence—why, what is the matter?"
Bella had started to her feet, and was looking at him strangely. "I am unwilling to suspect Mr. Pence, seeing that it seems almost certain your father is guilty, but I don't believe that my father—I mean that Captain Huxham told him."
"Why not?"
"It was not Captain Huxham's way to confide in anyone, and if he had kept silent for so long he certainly would not have told anyone later, especially Silas Pence. If anyone knew the truth it would be my aunt—I mean Mrs. Vand—and she hated me quite sufficiently to tell me that I was no kith or kin of hers. This she did not do."
"Well, and what do you make of the business?"
"This," said Bella, slowly. "I believe that Mr. Pence does know something of the murder, although he may not have struck the blow. Your father may have been disturbed by Mr. Pence, and may have taken the hundred pounds. But I am certain that Mr. Pence found some papers telling that I was not Captain Huxham's daughter, and has them in his possession now."
Cyril shook his head. "You have no proofs of this wild charge."
"No, I have not. All the same, I believe——"