It was the simplest, most natural question.
“I—don’t—know.”
They stared at one another. It was proof of her childlike acceptance of her life that she had never asked—had never thought to do so, even. She had been told that he had passed out of sight before they came to Peace Island and the forest, and had asked no further concerning him. Of his character and habits she had heard much. Her uncle was never weary in extolling his virtues; but of his death he had said only what has been written.
“But—I must know right away!”
In her eagerness she ran, and Adrian followed as swiftly. He was sorry for his thoughtless inquiry, but regret came too late. He tried to call Margot back, but she would not wait.
“I must know—I must know right away. Why have I never thought before?”
Hugh Dutton was resting after a day of study and mental labor, and his head leaned easily upon his cushioned chair. Yet as his dear child entered his room he held out his arms to draw her to his knee.
“In a minute, uncle. But Adrian has asked me something and it is the strangest thing that I cannot answer him. Where is my father buried?”
If she had dealt him a mortal blow he could not have turned more white. With a groan that pierced her very heart, he stared at Margot with wide, unseeing eyes; then sprang to his feet and fixed upon poor Adrian a look that scorched.
“You! you!” he gasped, and, sinking back, covered his face with his hands.