“Will you answer?”
“No.”
Doane's eyes blazed down wildly. And Doane's voice broke through the restraint he had put upon it as he cried:
“Have you harmed my little girl?”
Brachey was still.
“Answer me!” Doane's great hand came down on his shoulder. “Have you harmed her?”
Brachey's body trembled under that hand; he was fighting himself, fighting the impulse to strike with his fists, to seize the lamp, a chair, his walking stick; he held his breath; he could have tossed a coin for his life; but then, wandering like a little lost breeze among his bitter thoughts, came a beginning perception of the anguish in this father's heart. It confused him, softened him. His own voice was unsteady as he replied: “Not in the sense you mean.”
“In what sense, then?”
Brachey broke away. Doane moved heavily after him, but stopped short when the slighter man dropped wearily into a chair.
“I'm not going to attack you,” said Brachey, “but for God's sake sit down!”