“Well, sir, that was my business, and I chose to go. I could not stop in the cottage after that night’s work.”
“There is a mystery attached to that night’s work, Afy,” observed Mr. Carlyle; “a mystery that I cannot fathom. Perhaps you can help me out.”
“What mystery, sir?” returned Afy.
Mr. Carlyle leaned forward, his arms on the table. Afy had taken a chair at the other end of it. “Who was it that committed the murder?” he demanded, in a grave and somewhat imperative tone.
Afy stared some moments before she replied, astonished at the question. “Who committed the murder, sir?” she uttered at length. “Richard Hare committed it. Everybody knows that.”
“Did you see it done?”
“No,” replied Afy. “If I had seen it, the fright and horror would have killed me. Richard Hare quarreled with my father, and drew the gun upon him in passion.”
“You assume this to have been the case, Afy, as others have assumed it. I do not think that it was Richard Hare who killed your father.”
“Not Richard Hare!” exclaimed Afy, after a pause. “Then who do you think did it, sir—I?”
“Nonsense, Afy.”