"Suppose you explain it," she said, still cool.
"The significance is in the strengthening of the theory I've had throughout the whole week that's passed since your daughter was killed at Sloanehurst."
"What's that?"
She stopped rocking; her eyes played a fiery tattoo on every feature of his face.
"Your daughter's death was the unexpected result of your attempts to blackmail young Dalton's murderer. You, being afraid of him, and not confessing that timidity to Mildred, persuaded her to approach him—in person."
"I! Afraid of him!" she objected, aroused at last.
Her brows were lowered, a heavy line above her furtive, swift eyes; her nostrils fluttered nervously.
"Granting your absurd theory," she continued, "why should I have feared him? What had he done—except strike to save his own life?"
"You forget, Mrs. Brace," he corrected. "That body showed twenty-nine wounds, twenty-eight of them unnecessary—if the first was inflicted in mere self-defence. It was horrible mutilation."
"So!" she ridiculed, with obvious effort. "You picture him as a butcher."