"And now, good widow Scott, I would very much like you to tell me
where I might catch a glimpse of your charming daughter. Oh, do stop
the theatrics," he said irritably, as she clasped her hands to her
bosom and made as if to fall on her knees before him. "If I wanted the
services of a whore I have the whole countryside to choose from. It is
just that your daughter. . . interests me. For unless I am much
mistaken, I have seen her once before."
"I must beg you this last time," she pleaded. "Ask of me anything but
this. Take me if you like, kill me if you must; but I cannot---" He
had raised his pistol to arm's length as she spoke, and now fired it
with a crack at a portrait of the child Mary that hung in the adjacent
room. The ball found its mark at her throat, leaving a dark hole
through the canvas of the shadow behind, and the frightened woman
turned paler still. She tried to speak but he cut her short, his voice
low and menacing.
"I swear to you, my Highland whore, you will tell me where she is to
be found. Because if you don't, this very moment, I will find her
myself, and with this same pistol put a hole in the real
Mary Scott, and leave her to die in the dirt!"
"My sister has a second home," she stammered, hardly knowing how she
found the words.
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