Part 16 (1/2)

”You keep out of this, Boyne.”

”You tell what's up your sleeve, c.u.mmings,” I countered. ”This is no witness-stand cross-examination. What you got?”

But Worth answered for him, hotly,

”If c.u.mmings hasn't seventy-two thousand dollars I commissioned him to raise for me, I don't care what he's got.”

”And you didn't go to your father for it last night?” c.u.mmings returned to his question. He had moved close to the boy. Barbara stood just where she was when the door opened. Neither paid any attention to her. But she looked at the two men, drawn up with glances clinched, and spoke out suddenly in her clear young voice, as though there was no row on hand,

”Worth was with me last night, you know, Mr. c.u.mmings.”

”I seem to have noticed something of the sort,” c.u.mmings said with labored sarcasm. ”And he'd been with that wedding party earlier in the evening, I suppose.”

”With me till Miss Wallace came in.” Worth's natural disposition to disoblige the lawyer could be depended on to keep from c.u.mmings whatever information he wanted before giving us his own news. ”What you got, c.u.mmings?” I prompted again, impatiently. ”Come through.”

His eyes never s.h.i.+fted an instant from Worth Gilbert's face.

”A telegram--from Santa Ysobel,” he said slowly.

Worth shrugged and half turned away.

”I'm not interested in your telegram, c.u.mmings.”

Instantly I saw what the boy thought: that the other had taken it on himself to apply for the money to Thomas Gilbert, and had been turned down.

”Not interested?” c.u.mmings repeated in that dry, lawyer voice that speaks from the teeth out; on the mere tone, I braced for something nasty. ”I think you are. My telegram's from the coroner.”

Silence after that; Worth obstinately mute; Barbara and I afraid to ask.

There was a little tremor of c.u.mmings' nostril, he couldn't keep the flicker out of his eye, as he said, staring straight at Worth,

”It states that your father shot himself last night. The body wasn't discovered till late this morning, in his study.”

CHAPTER IX

SANTA YSOBEL

Of all unexpected things. I went down to Santa Ysobel with Worth Gilbert. It happened this way: c.u.mmings, one of those individuals on whose tombstone may truthfully be put, ”Born a man--and died a lawyer,”

seemed rather taken aback at the effect of the blow he'd launched. If he was after information, I can't think he learned much in the moment while Worth stood regarding him with an unreadable eye.

There was only a little grimmer tightening of the jaw muscle, something bleak and robbed in the glance of the eye; the face of one, it seemed to me, who grieved the more because he was denied real sorrow for his loss, and Worth had tramped to the window and stood with his back to us, putting the thing over in his silent, fighting fas.h.i.+on, speaking to none of us. It was when Barbara followed, took hold of his sleeve and began half whispering up into his face that c.u.mmings jerked his hat from the table where he had thrown it, and snapped,

”Boyne--can I have a few minutes of your time?”

”Jerry,” Worth's voice halted me at the door, ”Leave that card--an order--for me. For the suitcase.”

c.u.mmings was ahead of me, and he turned back to listen, but I crowded him along and was pretty hot when I faced him in the outer office to demand,

”What kind of a deal do you call this--ripping in here to throw this thing at the boy in such a way? What is your idea? What you trying to put over?”