“It’s more’n Ah be, though,” said he dubiously. “Ah found him standing over t’ corpse loike this ’ere, wi’ this in his hand.” He produced the revolver from his pocket. “And in t’ other hand he gotten letter ye spoake of, lass, that ye said would enreage him.”
“And what did he say? Did you accuse him?”
“He said he didn’t do it, an’ Ah, why, Ah didn’t believe him.”
“But I do,” said Freda calmly.
“Weel, but who could ha’ done it then?” asked he, hoping that she might have a reason to give which would bring satisfaction to his mind also.
But in Freda’s education faith and authority had been put before reason, and her answer was not one which could carry conviction to a masculine understanding.
“My father,” she said solemnly, “could not commit a murder.”
“Weel, soom folks’ feythers does, why not your feyther? There was nobody else to do it, an’ t’ poor feller couldn’t ha’ done it hissen, for he was shot in t’ back.”
“I will never believe my father did it,” said Freda.
“Happen he’ll tell ye he did.”