It stuck in his throat now. Without giving him time to prepare
himself the girl had shot straight for the bull's-eye, straight to the
heart of the thing that meant life or death to him, and for a moment he
found no answer. Clearly he was facing suspicion. She could not have
driven the shaft intuitively. The unexpectedness of the thing
astonished him and then thrilled him, and in the thrill of it he found
himself more than ever master of himself.
"Would you like to hear how utterly John Keith is dead and how he
died?" he asked.
"Yes. That is what I must know."
He noticed that her hands had closed. Her slender fingers were clenched
tight.
"I hesitate, because I have almost promised to tell you even more than
I told McDowell," he went on. "And that will not be pleasant for you to
hear. He killed your father. There can be no sympathy in your heart for
John Keith. It will not be pleasant for you to hear that I liked the
man, and that I am sorry he is dead."
"Go on--please."
Her hands unclasped. Her fingers lay limp. Something faded slowly out
of her face. It was as if she had hoped for something, and that hope
was dying. Could it be possible that she had hoped he would say that
John Keith was alive?
"Did you know this man?" he asked.
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