"Of course I'm with you. That is, I'd like to be. But I don't want to get into trouble, Mr. Whitford. Can you blame me for that?"
"You wouldn't get into trouble," argued the mine owner impatiently. "I keep telling you that."
Beatrice, watching the younger man closely, saw as in a flash the solution of this mystery—the explanation of the tangle to which various scattered threads had been leading her.
"Are you sure of that, Dad?"
"How could he be hurt, Bee?"
The girl let Bromfield have it straight from the shoulder. "Because
Clay didn't kill that man Collins. Clarendon did it."
"My God, you know!" he cried, ashen-faced. "He told you."
"No, he didn't tell us. For some reason he's protecting you. But I know it just the same. You did it."
"It was in self-defense," he pleaded.
"Then why didn't you say so? Why did you let Clay be accused instead of coming forward at once?"