Part 19 (1/2)

”Oh, I'll keep it,” said Emma grimly. ”Once his bandages are off, we'll let the hornets buzz, but not before.”

”Meantime,” remarked Tryon, ”if you like to make me a present of the information, I will promise to use it carefully and for nothing but Druro's benefit.”

Guthrie gave him a long, expressionless glance.

”There are worse things than having your eyes clawed out by a leopard,”

continued d.i.c.k enigmatically.

”What worse?”

”You might, for instance, have your heart plucked out by a vulture while you're lying helpless.”

”Poison the carca.s.s!” Emma elegantly advised. ”That'll finish the vulture before it has time to gorge full.” And, as he straddled his battered bicycle, he added a significant remark, which showed that he very well knew what he was talking about. ”Lundi'll always be blind about women, anyway.”

Tryon did not return to Druro's room, but went thoughtfully toward that wing of the hospital in which he knew the quarters of the young and pretty matron to be situated. Having found her, he put before her so urgent and convincing an appeal for an interview with Mrs. Hading that she went herself to ask that lady to receive him. A clinching factor was an adroit remark about his brother's interest in Druro's chances.

He guessed that such a remark repeated would bring him into Marice Hading's presence quicker than anything else, and he was right. Within five minutes, he was in the softly shaded, violet-scented room where Druro had groped his way some nights before--the difference being that he could see that which Druro had mercifully been spared.

The beauty of the woman sitting in the long chair had been torn from her like a veil behind which she had too long hidden her real self.

Now that she was stripped, a naked thing in the wind, all eyes could see her deformities and read her cold and arid soul. The furies of rage and rancour were grabbling at her heart, even as the leopard had scrabbled on her face. It was not the mere disfigurement of the angry, purplish scars that twisted her mouth and puckered her cheeks. A s.h.i.+ning spirit, gentle and brave in affliction might have transformed even these, robbing them of their hideousness. But here was one who had ”thrown down every temple she had built,” and whose dark eyes were empty now of anything except a malign and bitter ruin. It was as though nothing could longer cover and conceal her cynical dislike of all things but herself. The face set on the long, ravaged throat, once so subtly alluring, had turned hawklike and cruel. It seemed shrivelled, too, and, between the narrow linen bandages she still wore, it had the cunning malice of some bird of prey peering from a barred cage.

Tryon looked once, then kept his eyes to his boots. He would have given much to have fled, and, in truth, he had no stomach for his job.

It seemed to him uncommonly like hitting at some wounded creature already smitten to death. But it was not for himself he was fighting.

It was for Gay's sweet, upright soul, and the happiness of a man too good to be thrown to the vultures of a woman's greed and cruelty. That thought hardened his heart for the task he had in hand.

Marice came to the point at once. It seemed that, with her beauty, she had lost or discarded the habit of subtle attack.

”What does Sir Charles think of his chances?”

It was Tryon who had to have recourse to subtlety. Juggling with his brother's professional name was a risky business, and he did not mean to get on to dangerous ground.

”He can't tell yet--he was afraid to be certain, tonight--is going to have another go at them tomorrow. But----”

”But?” She leaned forward eagerly. ”There is not much hope?”

There was no mistaking her face and voice. It was as he had guessed; _she did not want Druro to recover_. Tryon had no further qualms.

”_I_ am not going to give up hope, anyway,” he said, with that air of dogged intent which is often founded on hopelessness. She gave a little sigh and sat back among her cus.h.i.+ons, like a woman who has taken a refres.h.i.+ng drink.

”Dear Druro, it is very sad for him!” said she complacently, and presently added, ”but I shall always see that he is taken care of.”

Something in Tryon shuddered, but outwardly he gave no sign, only looked at her commiseratingly.

”It is that we are thinking of--Guthrie and I. Are you strong enough physically and well-enough off financially to undertake such a burden?”

She regarded him piercingly, a startled look in her eyes. ”Doubtless you are a rich women--and, of course, no one could doubt your generosity. Still, a blind man without means of his own----”

”_What?_” She fired the word at him like a pistol-shot.