Part 52 (1/2)

”She lives in London.”

”Lives!” shrieked the lady. ”Andrew--you are a bigamist! And I--I am not lawfully--”

She leapt up and gave him one terrible look; and before he could speak she had swept wrathfully from the room.

And then the most surprising thing occurred. Instead of continuing his filial overtures, the young man sank into the corner of the sofa and burst into peal upon peal of boyish laughter.

”Oh, my dear Andrew!” he gasped. ”Oh, I can't help it--you a bigamist!

Poor respectable old blighter! I say, what a joke! Oh, Andrew, Andrew, my bonny, bonny boy!”

In silence through it all, Andrew gazed darkly down at the late Heriot Walkingshaw.

CHAPTER VI

”When you have finished,” said Andrew grimly.

He looked a nasty customer to tackle now, but the laugher on the sofa merely subsided into a friendly smile.

”Shake hands, Andrew,” he cried, jumping up.

Andrew placed his hands behind his back, and his glowering eyes answered this overture.

”What!” said Heriot, ”won't you even shake hands?”

Andrew still stared darkly.

”You'd rather have it war than peace?”

”I had rather conclude this conversation as soon as possible.”

Heriot looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head with a smile compounded of sorrow and humor.

”You're a hopeless case,” said he. ”Well, your blood be on your own head!”

Andrew's lip grew longer and longer.

”I admit you've made a fool of me,” he said, ”if that's any satisfaction. But you'll make nothing out of me; not a s.h.i.+lling, not a halfpenny. Do you hear?”

”Is that all?”

”Practically; but I may just as well point out, to let you see where you stand, that as you have now done your worst, there's no use trying on blackmail or anything of that kind. You have been so very clever, you've thrown away any hold you might fancy you had. Do you quite understand that?”

Heriot began to smile again, and Andrew's face grew grimmer.

”You can prove _nothing_. You may say you're my father if you like--”

”G.o.d forbid!” Heriot interrupted devoutly. ”I've had enough of fathering a bogle. Claim any sire you like from Lucifer downwards, but don't put the blame on me. I won't be disgraced with you again; not at any price.”