“I will hear what you have to say.”
Robert made a grimace to his cousin, to imply that this insignificant little girl was giving herself great airs. As for Dick, Freda had steadily avoided meeting his eyes, and he stood in the background, silently watching the flying sea-mews, without taking any active part in this interview.
“In the first place,” said Robert, still with a great show of deference, “I came—my cousin and I came, to express our regrets at your sad bereavement, at your father’s death, in fact.”
He looked at her rather curiously. Freda blushed.
“Thank you,” she said hurriedly.
“Yes,” he went on slowly, “we were very much shocked to hear about it, and very much surprised too. For I was just coming over here to inquire if Captain Mulgrave could tell me what had become of a servant of mine, a man you saw at our house, Miss Mulgrave; Blewitt, I dare say you remember him?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Freda, who had grown very pale.
“I sent him over here with a letter, a message to your father. From that day to this he has never been seen, and we have been unable to get any tidings of him. In the meantime comes the news of Captain Mulgrave’s having committed suicide. Under the circumstances, your father being known as a violent man, and the message being an unwelcome one, it was impossible to help thinking that the two events might have some connection with each other.”
“Well,” said Freda slowly, “but as both Blewitt and my father are—gone, I don’t see how the truth is ever to be found now; unless, indeed, the person who knows most about it should confess.”
Robert’s face flushed a little.