times seemed about to forbid her to go on; but, after glancing about and observing that no one seemed to suspect that they were engrossed in anything extraordinary, he bade her proceed. She omitted mention of her own letter from Huston Adley, as she had refrained from speaking of the supernatural portions of Barney's letters; and Bennet seemed to have forgotten her questions about Quinlan which had started their talk.
"You say you accused grandfather," he assailed her hotly, when she had finished, "of killing this Loutrelle pick-up of yours!"
"I told him I believed Kincheloe had done it and that he knew about it; and he did, Ben!"
"But you just said he had Loutrelle at the house waiting for you, and Loutrelle didn't even know anything had happened."
"That's true. I said I was mistaken. It wasn't Barney; it was—"
"Huh! you call him Barney, do you?"
"No; not to him," she went hot with confusion.
"But to yourself, I see. Well, go on."
"It was some one else they killed, Ben."
"Who do you mean by they?"
"Kincheloe and—grandfather."
"I'd not say that again to any one, if I were you, Ethel. I'd not even think it to myself again," he warned her unpleasantly. He had dropped entirely his familiar, fond "Eth." "You must be crazy."
"You weren't there, Ben."
"You—you fool," he said to her in pitying disgust. "You little fool."
She sat back, quite white and quivering under the constraint of controlling herself against Bennet's
