"Dear, how you frighten me. There's no need to scowl in that way. You have a temper, Allen, I can see."
"It shall never be shown to you," he said fondly. "Come, Eva."
But she still shook her head. "Allen, I had small cause to love my father, as you know. Still, he has been foully murdered: I have made up my mind to find out who killed him before I marry."
Allen rose in spite of his weak ankle and flung away her hand. "Oh, Eva," he said roughly, "is that all you care for me? My happiness is to be settled in this vague way----"
"Vague way----?"
"Certainly!" cried Hill excitedly; "you may never learn who killed your father. There's not a scrap of evidence to show who shot him."
"I may find Butsey," said Eva, looking obstinate.
"You'll never find him; and even if you do, how do we know that he can tell?"
"I am certain that he can tell much," said Miss Strode determinedly. "Think, Allen. He sent the telegram probably by order of my father's enemy. He came suddenly on those men at midnight when they were carrying the body. What was a child like that doing out so late, if he wasn't put up to mischief by some other person? And he knocked as happened in my dream, remember," she said, sinking her voice; "and then he came here with a lying message on the very day my father's wooden hand was stolen."
"Do you think he stole it?"