"Eh? Eh?" the old man quavered.
"You're not as deaf as that. Where's your daughter now?"
"My ears!" the old servant whined. "I can't hear, sir."
"All right," Garth shouted. "If you want to go to the lockup and your daughter too, stay as deaf as you please."
He wasn't prepared for the revolting success that came to him. McDonald clutched at one of the window curtains and hid his twitching face in its folds, while sobs, difficult and sickening, tore from his throat, shaking his bent shoulders.
"God knows! I haven't seen her since I went to bed last night. I thought she'd gone out."
He glanced up, his face grimacing.
"Don't you think she did it. Don't you think —"
"First of all," Garth said, "I want her picture."
"I haven't any," McDonald cried.
But Garth hadn't missed the man's instinctive gesture towards his watch pocket. Then, whether he actually knew anything or not, he suspected his daughter and sought to protect her. Against his protests Garth took the watch and, as he had foreseen, found a photograph in the case. The picture was not of a young woman, but the face was still attractive in an uncompromising fashion. It was this hardness, this determination about the picture that made Garth decide that the original, under sufficient provocation, would be capable of killing.
"For her sake and yours, McDonald," Garth
