Tell me
what you have done with her."
"Mr. Goodrich," said Dick, forcing himself to be calm, "you must
explain. It is true that I was with your daughter night before last,
but--" he hesitated; should he explain how he had found Amy?--"I left
her safely at your door and have not seen her since." He finished. "Is
she not home?"
Adam only glared at him. "She did not sleep at home last night," he
growled.
Dick's voice failed him for a moment. "Then she must be stopping with
some friend; surely there is no need for alarm."
"I tell you she's gone," said the other furiously. "She left a letter.
You are to blame for this. You I say; and you shall suffer for it."
He shook his clenched fist at the young man. "If you have hidden her
anywhere I'll have your life; you miserable, low-down vagabond. You
have schemed and schemed until you have succeeded in stealing her heart
from her home, and disgracing me."
"Adam Goodrich, you lie," said Dick, pale with mingled anxiety for the
girl, and angry that her father should thus accuse him. "Do you
understand me? I say that you lie. That you are the most contemptible
liar that I have ever known. Your whole life is a lie." He spoke in
a low tone, but there was something underlying the quiet of his voice
and manner that contrasted strangely with the loud bluster of the older
man, and made the latter tremble. This was a new experience for him,
and something in the manly face of the one who uttered these hard words
startled and frightened him.
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