“You—you—come to kill me?”
“No—no,” stammered Gray, trying to smile, and producing his usual painful distortion of features. “No—no—I did—not—no—no! Ada, I did not.”
“That knife?” said Ada, pointing to it as she spoke.
“The knife,” repeated Gray. “Hark, some one knocks, Ada, at our lonely home.”
“Those looks of terror,” continued the young girl, “those blanched cheeks, those trembling hands, all convince me that I have escaped death at your hands.”
“No; I say no,” gasped Gray.
“And my hound too,” added Ada: “my fond, faithful dog, where is he, uncle Gray?”
“Yes; the dog,” cried Gray, eagerly catching at the hope of persuading her that it was solely to compass the destruction of the hound he had thus stolen to her room. “I admit I did seek the dog’s life; you vexed me about the animal.”
The knocking at the door sounded now more loudly than before, and the knocker was evidently plied by an impatient hand.
“Hark, hark!” cried Gray. ”Ada, hear me; whoever knocks without can be no friend of ours.”