Part 55 (1/2)

”Dr. Wyant--you must give back that letter.”

He stopped short with a whitening face.

She felt Amherst's eyes on her again; and she said desperately, addressing him: ”Dr. Wyant understands my reasons.”

Her husband's glance turned abruptly to Wyant. ”Do you?” he asked after a pause.

Wyant looked from one to the other. The moisture came out on his forehead, and he pa.s.sed his hand over it again. ”Yes,” he said in a dry voice. ”Mrs. Amherst wants me farther off--out of New York.”

”Out of New York? What do you mean?”

Justine interposed hastily, before the answer could come. ”It is because Dr. Wyant is not in condition--for such a place--just at present.”

”But he a.s.sures me he is quite well.”

There was another silence; and again Wyant broke in, this time with a slight laugh. ”I can explain what Mrs. Amherst means; she intends to accuse me of the morphine habit. And I can explain her reason for doing so--she wants me out of the way.”

Amherst turned on the speaker; and, as she had foreseen, his look was terrible. ”You haven't explained that yet,” he said.

”Well--I can.” Wyant waited another moment. ”I know too much about her,”

he declared.

There was a low exclamation from Justine, and Amherst strode toward Wyant. ”You infernal blackguard!” he cried.

”Oh, gently----” Wyant muttered, flinching back from his outstretched arm.

”My wife's wish is sufficient. Give me back that letter.”

Wyant straightened himself. ”No, by G.o.d, I won't!” he retorted furiously. ”I didn't ask you for it till you offered to help me; but I won't let it be taken back without a word, like a thief that you'd caught with your umbrella. If your wife won't explain I will. She's, afraid I'll talk about what happened at Lynbrook.”

Amherst's arm fell to his side. ”At Lynbrook?”

Behind him there was a sound of inarticulate appeal--but he took no notice.

”Yes. It's she who used morphia--but not on herself. She gives it to other people. She gave an overdose to Mrs. Amherst.”

Amherst looked at him confusedly. ”An overdose?”

”Yes--purposely, I mean. And I came into the room at the wrong time. I can prove that Mrs. Amherst died of morphia-poisoning.”

”John!” Justine gasped out, pressing between them.

Amherst gently put aside the hand with which she had caught his arm.

”Wait a moment: this can't rest here. You can't want it to,” he said to her in an undertone.

”Why do you care...for what he says...when I don't?” she breathed back with trembling lips.

”You can see I am not wanted here,” Wyant threw in with a sneer.