“You are right, Lola. Go, now. I wish to be alone with this man for a time.”
A light, graceful form glided past him and paused within range of Campbell’s vision, her eyes resting softly upon his face. A light of pity seemed to beam from their liquid depths as she uttered:
“You will not—not harm him, father?”
“Go—it is not your place to question me. You forget yourself, child,” sternly replied Mestayer, his brow contracting.
With another glance at the bewildered hunter, Lola disappeared from view. Then the eyes of the two men met fully, and Campbell read in those of the tall man a depth of hatred that for a moment chilled his blood. But then his courage returned, and he was once more himself, cool and collected.
“Well, sir, will you tell me what this treatment means, if, as I suppose, you are the one who struck me in the dark?”
“And may I ask why you were prowling round my home with drawn revolver?” retorted Mestayer.
“I was seeking for a friend, and had reason to believe that he was detained here by force,” boldly added Campbell, closely eying the old man; but the sneering smile didn’t change in the least.
“Who do you allude to?”
“Fred Hawksley. He followed your—that woman here, a week ago, and has not been seen or heard of since.”