"Ah, it's so good to have some one to lean on!" she murmured.
"Your father—what is the matter with him?" asked Ambrose.
The look in her eyes and her piteous shaking warned him to expect something worse than the tale of an illness.
She lifted her white face.
"Father was shot last night," she said.
"Good God!" said Ambrose. "By whom?"
"We do not know."
"He's not—he's not—" Ambrose's tongue balked at the dreadful word.
She shook her head. "A dangerous wound, not necessarily fatal. We can't tell yet."
"You have no idea who did it?"