“I did not,” persisted Richard, doggedly. “I did not make her take my knife. Here is my knife, with my name cut in the handle.”
Madelon turned on him fiercely. “You did, you know you did!” said she.
“Here is my knife, with my name cut on the handle.”
“You gave me a knife as I was coming out of the tavern.”
“No, I did not.”
“You did, and I killed him with it. It was not Burr! I ran for help, and I met Burr, and I told him what I had done, and he went back with me to Lot. Then he sent me home when he heard somebody coming. Ask Lot Gordon if I did not kill him; if he can speak he can tell you.”
“There won't neither him nor Burr say a word,” said the old man, “but there was Burr's knife a-stickin' into Lot's side, with his name cut into it.”
Madelon turned sharply to Louis. “You saw the blood on my hand when I was rubbing your arm last night,” she said.
He made no reply, but stared gloomily at the fire.
“Louis, you saw Lot Gordon's blood on my hand?”