"Then dry those tears," said Chelda, sternly, and with her own handkerchief she wiped Derrice's burning cheeks. "Say nothing of your father; you know nothing about him. He has not been here. You are merely making a call. Sit down and occupy yourself with that book,—or, better still, go to the music-room. You will find a sonata open on the piano. Play, play as you value your father's safety. Do you hear me?" and she gave her a slight push toward the door.
"I do," said Derrice, in terrified accents, and appealing to her husband, "but what does this mean? Can you not explain?"
His lips formed the words, "Not now; go, my darling," and with inexpressible sadness he waved her from him.
Derrice went stumbling through the doorway. She had one glimpse of another carriage being driven furiously up to the door, and an inflamed crimson visage peering from it, then she dizzily found herself seated at the piano, her fingers tremblingly picking out the harmonies of an immortal composition.
Justin marvelled at Chelda's self-possession. In icy dignity and haughtiness she stood in the centre of the room, confronting a man who was an embodiment of enraged and speechless vulgarity.
Behind him lurked the chief of police of the town, looking slightly ashamed of himself, and throwing an apologetic glance toward Justin.
H. Robinson had no time for civilities to-day, and he was much too angry to be overawed by Chelda. "Where is that man?" he gasped, after a time.
Chelda in superb disdain looked over his head at the chief of police. How much did he know?
He knew but little. With professional jealousy and contrariety H. Robinson had kept the main part of his secret to himself. He had, moreover, been bullying his partial colleague. Chelda knew it by the sulky expression of her fellow townsman.
"Good morning, Mr. Gordon," she said, cuttingly ignoring the remark just made to her. "Will you not sit down? Mr. Mercer will entertain you while I talk to this—this—"