The crowds of poor-looking people who had collected to see the funeral had begun very slowly to melt away, and Freda overheard enough of the remarks they exchanged to learn that her father had been very good to the poor, especially to the seafaring folk, and that there was much genuine sorrow at his death. She wanted to speak to some of these people, to assure them that as far as lay in her power, she would fill his place to them. But she was too shy. Her friend had to speak to her to recall her attention to himself.
“Rum business this altogether,” he said. “They say your father was found dead in his room, don’t they?”
“Yes,” mumbled Freda, with white lips.
“Nothing said about his being shot out-of-doors, eh?”
She shook her head.
“No man accused of having murdered him?”
“No.”
“Well, I could tell a tale—only it wouldn’t do for me just now to be telling tales, and bringing myself into prominence. Besides, without corroboration, I daresay my tale wouldn’t amount to much. Still——”
“Don’t, don’t,” said Freda hoarsely, “don’t find out anything, don’t try to. What good could it do now?”
He looked at her searchingly, not unkindly. Yet there was something in the expression of his face which impressed Freda with the belief that he was a man with whom no prayers, no entreaties would avail anything when he had once made up his mind.