"Just what I say," with an odd laugh. "I have been in this house since you were first put in these rooms."
He sat like one stupefied. At last he sprang up and fairly yelled, "In the fiend's name, explain this chicanery. Why are you here? Who is keeping me a prisoner, and wherefore? Is it you, you little virago?"
"Softly, step-papa; one thing at a time. I am here because you are here," she said in a voice of unruffled calm. "Who is keeping you a prisoner, you ask? I am."
Once more he seemed on the point of giving way to a paroxysm of rage, but controlled himself and said, sullenly:
"I suppose I may thank you for my imprisonment from first to last."
"You may thank me if you choose, but it will be bestowing your gratitude upon the wrong party. I did not lock you up. I simply permitted it."
"And why have you leagued with my wife—curse her—to shut me up like a thief?"
"Why?" her voice rising in angry scorn, "Do you ask me why? Why did you make my mother almost a prisoner in her own home? Why did you crush her in life, and blaspheme her in death? Why did you drive her daughter from the home that was hers, to escape from your cruelty, your insults, your avarice? John Arthur, how dare you ask me why you are here!"
Again the flashing eye, the ringing, wrathful voice, the white, uplifted hand. They menaced him again, as on that June evening when she had defied him and then fled out into the darkness, not to return, save in dreams, until now.
Again he felt a thrill of terror, and he sat before her mute and cowering. At last he found voice to say: "Do you mean that you intend to keep me a prisoner?"