Tresler deemed it best to avoid half measures, and answered with prompt decision—
“Your father, for one.”
“Then,” said Diane, steadying at once, “we had better close the door into the passage.”
She suited the action to the word, and returned dry-eyed and calm.
“My father?” Her question was sharp; it was a demand.
Instead of answering her, Tresler pointed to the broken lamp on the floor.
“You have had an accident,” he said, and his blue eyes compelled hers, and held them.
“Yes,” she said, after the least possible hesitation. Then, not without a slight touch of resentment: “But you have not answered my question.”
“I’ll answer that later on. Let me go on in my own way.”