Part 20 (1/2)
She threw out her arms in a wide gesture of desperation. ”For the love o' G.o.d, go 'way an' leave me in peace. Don't ye see I ain't fit to talk to anybody?” She gasped with a choking throat. ”_He_ ain't comin' back again--not to-night. I'll swear it on th' Bible, if ye want me to.”
Their glances met, hers weary and pleading, and he believed her.
”All right, Mrs. Bergen,” he said soothingly. ”I'll take your word for it, but you'll admit the whole thing is very strange--very startling.”
”Yes--strange. G.o.d knows it is. But I--I can't tell ye anything.”
”But what shall I say to Mr. McGuire--upstairs. I've got to go up--now.”
”Say to him----?” she gasped helplessly, all her terrors renewed. ”Ye can't tell him I was talkin' to anybody.” And then more wildly, ”Ye mustn't. I wasn't. I was talkin' to myself--that's the G.o.d's truth, I was--when ye come in. It was so strange--an' all. Don't tell him, Mr.
Nichols,” she pleaded at last, with a terrible earnestness, and clutching at his hand. ”For my sake, for Beth's----”
”What has Beth to do with it?”
”More'n ye think. Oh, G.o.d----” she broke off. ”What am I sayin'----?
Beth don't know. She mustn't. He don't know either----”
”Who? McGuire?”
”No--no. Don't ask any more questions, Mr. Nichols,” she sobbed. ”I can't speak. Don't ye see I can't?”
So Peter gave up the inquisition. He had never liked to see a woman cry.
”Oh, all right,” he said more cheerfully, ”you'd better be getting to bed. Perhaps daylight will clear things up.”
”And ye won't tell McGuire?” she pleaded.
”I can't promise anything. But I won't if I'm not compelled to.”
She gazed at him uncertainly, her weary eyes wavering, but she seemed to take some courage from his att.i.tude.
”G.o.d bless ye, sir.”
”Good-night, Mrs. Bergen.”
And then, avoiding the drawing-room, Peter made his way up the stairs with a great deal of mental uncertainty to the other room of terror.
CHAPTER VII
MUSIC
Stryker, who kept guard at the door of McGuire's room, opened it cautiously in response to Peter's knock. He found McGuire sitting rigidly in a rocking-chair at the side of the room, facing the windows, a whisky bottle and gla.s.s on the table beside him. His face had lost its pallor, but in his eyes was the same look of gla.s.sy bewilderment.
”Why the H---- couldn't you come sooner?” He whined the question, not angrily, but querulously, like a child.
”I was having a look around,” replied Peter coolly.
”Oh! And did you find anybody?”