Crispin was rather startled by the question.
“Well,” he asked in his turn, looking stolidly at the fire, “who did Barnabas Ugthorpe think it was?”
“Oh,” said Freda quickly, “he was wrong, altogether wrong. I told him so.”
“And supposing he had been right, altogether right, your father would be a murderer.”
Freda bent her head, but said nothing.
“What do you say to that?”
The girl burst out fierily:
“Why, that he was not a murderer! he was not, he was not! And I wouldn’t believe it if—if everybody in England had been there!”
She kept her head up, and looked at him steadily, her eyes flashing defiance. After a few moments he got up.
“You’re tired, and you’re very silly,” he said, huskily.