From grief there was a quick transition to righteous indignation.
“If the poor boy is drowned, I charge John Trafton with his death!” said the grief-stricken woman with an energy startling for one of her usually calm temperament.
“What’s this about John Trafton?” demanded a rough voice.
It was John Trafton himself, who, unobserved, had reached the door of the cabin.
Ben Bence and Herbert shrank from him with natural aversion.
“So you’re talking against me behind my back, are you?” asked Trafton, looking from one to the other with a scowl.
His wife rose to her feet and turned upon him a glance such as he had never met before.
“What have you done with Robert, John Trafton?” she demanded sternly.
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” he said, laughing shortly. “I’ve served him as he deserved.”
“What have you done with him?” she continued in a slow, measured voice.