"There was my father, huddled in a chair, and blood had run out
from an ugly wound in his side. I screamed and fell on my knees
beside him. But," she shuddered, "it was too late. He was cold. He
did not answer."
Kennedy said nothing, but let her weep into her dainty lace
handkerchief, though the impulse was strong to do anything to calm
her grief.
"Mr. Lockwood had come in to visit him on business, had found the
door into the hall open, and entered. No one seemed to be about;
but the lights were burning. He went on into the den. There was my
father--"
She stopped, and could not go on at all for several minutes.
"And Mr. Lockwood, who is he?" asked Craig gently.
"My father and I, we have been in this country only a short time,"
she replied, trying to speak in good English in spite of her
emotion, "with his partner in a--a mining venture--Mr. Lockwood."
She paused again and hesitated, as though in this strange land of
the north she had no idea of which way to turn for help. But once
started, now, she did not stop again.
"Oh," she went on passionately, "I don't know what it was that
came over my father. But lately he had been a changed man.
Sometimes I thought he was--what you call--mad.
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