"Why do you pretend you don't know?" she asked contemptuously.
I shook my head. "On my honour," I said, "I haven't the remotest idea."
Her lip curled delightfully, and she drew herself up to her full height. "I am Mercia Solano," she said.
I bowed. "It's a charming name," I observed, "but, under the circumstances, Mercia seems a little out of place."
"Ah, you can jest!" she cried bitterly. "You were well named the Satyr of Culebra."
"Really!" I said. "You embarrass me. I had no idea people were so complimentary. But what have I done to deserve all these little attentions?"
"What have you done!" Her hands clenched, and her breast rose and fell in superb indignation. "You ask me what you have done, when the grass is still brown above my father's body!"
Burying her face in her hands, she broke down and sobbed like a child.
I must admit that for a moment I felt an unspeakable brute. Under my breath I cursed Northcote heartily.
"You can believe me or not, as you choose," I said, "but I had no more to do with your father's death than you had."