Mr. Cass rose from his chair and looked at her with a frown. "Go on," he said.
"I have nothing more to say," she cried with a fresh burst of tears. "I know now that the links did belong to you. How did you lose the one at the Turnpike House? The blow--"
"Was struck through the window, you would say," her father finished, with a cold smile, "and that I struck it!"
"No, no!" she cried. "I am sure you did not. Oh, I am sure you did not, father. But ever since I have found these links I have been in terror for you. What if the one I gave Geoffrey should be traced? Oh, I wished I had kept it myself?"
"It is too late to wish anything now," he said, bitterly, but very quietly. "I must say you are a dutiful daughter. I suppose you really mean to accuse me of having murdered Jenner?"
"I do not--I do not. I am sure you never did. You can explain."
"I explain nothing," he interrupted, sternly. "The links are mine. Whether I dropped a portion of one at the Turnpike House or not does not matter to you. I will see Heron and explain to him. All I ask of you is to hold your tongue."
"I will, I will," sobbed the girl. "But, oh, father, don't be hard on me. I'm very sorry that I meddled at all."
Mr. Cass looked at her in silence, and his stern face softened. "I know you do not credit me with this crime," he said, "and I am glad you have so much grace. But even to you I cannot explain. You must trust me."
"I do. Whom should I trust but my own dear father?"