For some reason or other, Bromfield was
in a state of collapse this morning the valet could not understand.
The man's business was to protect him until he had recovered. But he
could not flatly turn his master's fiancee out of the apartment. His
eye turned to Whitford and found no help there. He fell back on the
usual device of servants.
"I don't really think he can see you, Miss. The doctor has specially
told me to guard against any excitement. But I'll ask Mr. Bromfield
if--if he feels up to it."
The valet passed into what was evidently a bedroom and closed the door
behind him. There was a faint murmur of voices.
"I'm going in now," Beatrice announced abruptly to her father.
She moved forward quickly, before Whitford could stop her, whipped open
the door, and stepped into the room. Her father followed her
reluctantly.
Clarendon, in a frogged dressing-gown, lay propped up by pillows.
Beside the bed was a tray, upon which was a decanter of whiskey and a
siphon of soda. His figure seemed to have fallen together and his
seamed face was that of an old man. But it was the eyes that held her.
They were full of stark terror. The look in them took the girl's
breath. They told her that he had undergone some great shock.
He shivered at sight of her.
"What is it, Clary?" she cried, moving toward him. "Tell me--tell me
all about it."
"I--I'm ill." He quaked it from a burning throat.
"You were all right, yesterday.
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