The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into directly avowing that the purpose of my visit had not been answered yet.
“I have another motive in coming here,” I said.
“Ah! I thought so,” remarked Mrs. Catherick.
“Your daughter’s death—”
“What did she die of?”
“Of disease of the heart.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“Your daughter’s death has been made the pretext for inflicting serious injury on a person who is very dear to me. Two men have been concerned, to my certain knowledge, in doing that wrong. One of them is Sir Percival Glyde.”
“Indeed!”
I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the sudden mention of that name. Not a muscle of her stirred—the hard, defiant, implacable stare in her eyes never wavered for an instant.
“You may wonder,” I went on, “how the event of your daughter’s death can have been made the means of inflicting injury on another person.”
“No,” said Mrs. Catherick; “I don’t wonder at all. This appears to be your affair. You are interested in my affairs. I am not interested in yours.”
“You may ask, then,” I persisted, “why I mention the matter in your presence.”
“Yes, I do ask that.”