I could not mistake Jetta's shudder. But De Boer did not see it, for she covered it by impulsively putting her hand upon his arm.
"Did you—did you kill my father?" She stumbled over the question. But she asked it with a childlike innocence sufficiently real to convince him.
"I? Why—" He recovered from his surprise. "Why no, little bird. Who told you that I did?"
"No one. I—no one has said anything about it." She added slowly, "I hoped that it was not you, De Boer."
"Me? Oh no: it was an accident." He shot me a menacing glance. "I will explain it all. Jetta. Your father and I were friends for years—"
"Yes. I know. Often he spoke to me of you. Many times I asked him to let me meet you."
hey were ignoring me. But Gutierrez, lurking in the door oval, was not: I was well aware of that.
"I remember you from years ago, little Jetta."