Part 3 (2/2)
”I do not intend to omit doing that, as well,” replied McQuade, imperturbably.
We remained in uneasy silence until the maid, who had answered the bell, returned with Miss Temple, who, dismissing her at the door, faced us with a look upon her face of unfeigned surprise. She appeared pale and greatly agitated. I felt that she had not slept, and the dark circles under her eyes confirmed my belief. She looked about, saw our grave faces, then turned to her father. ”You sent for me, Father?” she inquired, nervously.
”Sergeant McQuade here”--he indicated the detective whom Miss Temple recognized by a slight inclination of her head--”wishes to ask you a few questions.”
”Me?” Her voice had in it a note of alarm which was not lost upon the man from Scotland Yard, who regarded her with closest scrutiny.
”I'll not be long, Miss. I think you may be able to clear up a few points that at present I cannot quite understand.”
”I'm afraid I cannot help you much,” she said, gravely.
”Possibly more than you think, Miss. In the first place I understand that your father had promised your hand in marriage to Mr. Ashton.”
Miss Temple favored me with a quick and bitter glance of reproach. I knew that she felt that this information had come from me.
”Yes,” she replied, ”that is true.”
”Did you desire to marry him?”
The girl looked at her father in evident uncertainty.
”I--I--Why should I answer such a question?” She turned to the detective with scornful eyes. ”It is purely my own affair, and of no consequence--now.”
”That is true, Miss,” replied the Sergeant, with deeper gravity. ”Still, I do not see that the truth can do anyone any harm.”
Miss Temple flushed and hesitated a moment, then turned upon her questioner with a look of anger. ”I did not wish to marry Mr. Ashton,”
she cried. ”I would rather have died, than have married him.”
McQuade had made her lose her temper, for which I inwardly hated him.
His next question left her cold with fear.
”When did you last see Mr. Ashton alive?” he demanded.
The girl hesitated, turned suddenly pale, then threw back her head with a look of proud determination. ”I refuse to answer that question,” she said defiantly.
Her father had been regarding her with amazed surprise. ”Muriel,” he said, in a trembling voice--”what do you mean? You left Mr. Ashton and myself in the dining-room at a little after nine.” She made no reply.
Sergeant McQuade slowly took from his pocket the handkerchief he had found in Mr. Ashton's room, and, handing it to her, said simply: ”Is this yours, Miss?”
Miss Temple took it, mechanically.
”Yes,” she said.
”It was found beside the murdered man's body,” said the detective as he took the handkerchief from her and replaced it in his pocket.
For a moment, I thought Miss Temple was going to faint, and I instinctively moved toward her. She recovered herself at once. ”What are you aiming at?” she exclaimed. ”Is it possible that you suppose _I_ had anything to do with Mr. Ashton's death?”
<script>