I queried. “Is he not your friend, as well as mine?”
“Granted, but—well, he has been here several years, and I have known Asta all the time. Indeed, I confess I am very fond of her. But were it not for her I would never darken his doors.”
“Why?” I asked, much surprised.
“Well,” he said with hesitation, lowering his voice. “Because there’s something wrong about him.”
“Something wrong? What do you mean?”
“What I allege. I take a great interest in physiognomy, and the face of Harvey Shaw is the face of a worker of evil.”
“Then you have suspicion of him, eh? Of what?”
“I hardly know. But I tell you this perfectly openly and frankly. I do not like those covert glances which he sometimes gives Asta. They are glances of hatred.”
“My dear fellow,” I laughed. “You must really be mistaken in this. He is entirely devoted to her. He has told me so.”
“Ah, yes! He is for ever making protestations of parental love, I know, but his face betrays the fact that his words do not come from his heart. He hates her?”