Part 13 (2/2)

”What of it?”

For the second time Aylmer hesitated before he spoke.

”It seems to me,” he said slowly, ”that in this part of the world I am responsible for the good name which he is smirching. He has gone to Tangier--not only to save his skin. He has gone to commence a campaign of terrorization against the Van Arlens. Merely as an Aylmer I have to pit my hand against his, merely to clear our name and to do my duty. And there is more than that. Since Landon, for moral purposes, is dead, I consider that morally, and very possibly legally, I am the child's guardian. To keep my trust I have to safeguard the child from his father.”

Despard tapped his fingers doubtfully upon the mantelpiece.

”And the Van Arlens?” he questioned.

There were tones in his voice which made Aylmer pause over his portmanteau.

”The Van Arlens? I am, of course, going to them direct.”

Despard hesitated.

”You can't work with them,” he said at last. ”They won't accept your help.”

A flicker of emotion, first of pain and then of purpose, gleamed in Aylmer's eyes.

”But they may need it,” he answered. He looked at Despard searchingly.

”And why not?” he went on. ”What have they against me except my name?”

”You don't know what it has come to mean to them, in eight years,” said Despard, quietly.

And then a queer little silence fell between them, an interval which seemed charged with the electricity of emotion. Despard looked at Aylmer. His friend was staring in his direction, but with a meditative, impersonal gaze which seemed to glance through--not at--him. And a smile grew faintly about his lips, though these, indeed, were pressed firmly together.

He straightened his shoulders, he sighed.

”Of course I start handicapped,” he allowed. ”But I can run a waiting race.” And then he gave an involuntary start and a quick, curious glance at his companion. ”We aren't compet.i.tors?” he asked suddenly.

The crimson surged up under the tan on Despard's forehead. He laughed harshly.

”The race was run and I was beaten, nine years ago,” he said. ”There will be no other entry, for me.” He walked up to Aylmer and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

”G.o.d knows, old chap, I wish you luck. But you carry weight, there's no denying that.”

Aylmer nodded again.

”To carry weight one wants a stayer,” he said. ”And I can stay, Despard.”

The other nodded.

”Yes,” he said quietly. ”You can stay. And as far as I know, the course is clear.” His voice halted and stumbled queerly. ”I ran straight, too, but I was fouled.”

And with a grip of Aylmer's hand he went out, to lay the balm of hope against the unhealed wound fate had dealt him, nine long years before.

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