“I am sorry for that, but you must hear the rest. Uncle Foster, why did you refuse to tell me what Bob said to you and what you said to him the other day at his studio?”
“Eh? What are you talking about? I didn’t refuse.”
“Yes, you did. Or, at any rate, you told me nothing that amounted to anything. You did not tell me that he charged you with planning my trip to Europe merely to get me away from him—and canceling it when you found he was going. You didn’t tell me that, nor that you admitted it was true. Yes,” bitterly, “and boasted of your cleverness, gloried in your trickery. You didn’t mention that.”
She had caught him again. He had no defense ready. The suddenness of the accusation left him mute and staring.
“How—how on earth did you know about that?” he gasped.
“Bob, himself, told me. I went down there to see him yesterday afternoon.”
His face, already flushed, grew redder still as this paralyzing statement forced itself upon his comprehension. He drew back slowly.
“What!” he roared. “You went down to that shanty to see that fellow?”
“Yes.”
“Good God! Why—why, what do you mean by it? Didn’t I tell you never to go near that place again?”