Theodore’s face fell at the remembrance.
“Ye-es, and I shall never forget what he did, what he said. He came into the room with glaring eyes—’pon my soul, I thought he had been bitten by a mad dog, Elshaw! He flew at me, showing his teeth. He shook me till my teeth chattered; he called me all the names he could think of that had anything brutal and opprobrious in the sound. He told me my daughter had killed his son, murdered him; and he said that he would get her penal servitude if they didn’t bring it in what it was—murder! What do you think of that? What do you think of that? And I, in my weak state, to hear it! I give you my word, Elshaw, I never thought I should get home alive!”
There was a pause. Mr. Biron wiped his face. His hands were shaking; his voice was tremulous and hoarse. He looked as pitiful a wretch as it was possible to imagine.
“Did he tell you—how it happened?” asked Bram in a low voice.
He was hoping, always hoping against hope, that some new fact would come to light which would shift the blame of the awful catastrophe from Claire’s poor little shoulders. But Mr. Biron had no comfort for him.
“Yes,” sobbed he. “He told me she had gone down to the works to see her cousin——”
“Ah, if she had only not done that! Not been forced to do that,” broke from Bram’s lips.
Theodore grew suddenly quiet, and stared at him apprehensively.
“How was she forced to do it?” he asked querulously.
But Bram did not answer.