“Why?”
“Because, if the body had been found in the road, your father would have been hanged for the murder.”
“But he didn’t do it, he didn’t do it,” wailed Freda, in a tone which implored him to agree with her.
“Perhaps he thought a live man could prove his own innocence better than a dead one,” suggested Crispin drily.
Freda sprang up, and in great excitement, forgetting her crutch, half hobbled, half leapt across the room until she stood close to him, face to face, eye to eye.
She seized his hands, and devoured his face with eyes which seemed to burn and shoot forth flames.
“Then he is—not—dead?” she hissed out, with hot breath.
“Hush, hush, for goodness’ sake, girl, hold your tongue,” said Crispin, whose turn it was to feel alarmed. “Do you know, you little fool, what it would mean to everybody in this house if such—such craziness were suspected?”
“Oh, yes,” said she, turning suddenly grave, “of course I know that. Tell me, Crispin, where is he? where is my father?”
“He’s where he hasn’t got to trust his life to your prattling tongue,” said Crispin gruffly.