Part 43 (1/2)

”There's something else, sir,” he said, after a pause. ”I've found out that she's giving the General things to drink.”

”Hilda?” Derry said, incredulously. ”Oh, surely not, Bronson, The Doctor has given her strict orders--.”

”She's got a bottle behind the books, and she pours him a gla.s.s right after dinner, and another before he goes to sleep, and--and--you know he'd sell his soul for the stuff, Mr. Derry.”

Derry did know. It had been the shame of all his youthful years that his father should stoop to subterfuge, to falsehood, to everything that was foreign to his native sense of honor and honesty, for a taste of that which his abnormal appet.i.te demanded.

”If anyone had told me but you, Bronson, I wouldn't have believed it.”

”I didn't want to tell you, but I had to. You can see that, can't you, sir?”

”Yes. But how in the world did she know where the diamonds were?”

”He gave her his key one day when I was there--made me get it off his ring. He sent her for your picture--the one that your mother used to wear. I thought then that he wasn't quite right in his head, with the fever and all, or he would have sent me. But a woman like that--”

”Dr. McKenzie has the greatest confidence in her.”

”I know, sir, and she's probably played square with him--but she ain't playing square here.”

”It can't go on, of course. I shall have to tell McKenzie.”

Bronson protested nervously. ”If she puts her word against mine, who but you will believe me? I'd rather you saw it yourself, Mr. Derry, and left my name out of it.”

”But I can't sit on the steps and watch.”

”No, sir, but you can come in unexpected from the outside--when I flash on the third floor light for you.”

Derry slept little that night. Ahead of him stretched twenty-four hours of suspense--twenty-four hours in which he would have to think of this thing which was hidden in the big house in which his mother had reigned.

In the weeks since he had met Jean, he had managed to thrust it into the back of his mind--he had, indeed, in the midst of his happiness, forgotten his bitterness, his sense of injustice--he wondered if he had not in a sense forgotten his patriotism. Life had seemed so good, his moments with Jean so transcendent--there had been no room for anything else.

But now he was to take up again the burden which he had dropped. He was to consider his problem from a new angle. How could he bring Jean here? How could he let her clear young eyes rest on that which he and his mother had seen? How could he set, as it were, all of this sordidness against her sweetness? Money could, of course, do much.

But his promise held him to watchfulness, to brooding care, to residence beneath this roof. His bride would be the General's daughter, she would live in the General's house, she would live, too, beneath the shadow of the General's tragic fault.

Yet--she was a brave little thing. He comforted himself with that.

And she loved him. He slept at last with a desperate prayer on his lips that some new vision might be granted him on the morrow.

But the first news that came over the telephone was of Jean's flitting.

”Daddy wants me to go with him to our old place in Maryland. He has some business which takes him there, and we shall be gone two days.”

”Two days?”

”Yes. We are to motor up.”

”Can't I go with you?”

”I think--Daddy wants me to himself. You won't mind, Derry--some day you'll have me all the time.”

”But I need you now, dearest.”