XVIII
Goodhue caught Lambert's arm. In a flash George read the meaning of Dalrymple's charge. Naturally he was the one to do something of the sort, had to try it. He had been afraid of Lambert's knowing of the loan. How much less could he let Lambert learn why George had justifiably shut his mouth.
"Keep quiet," George warned Lambert. "Dicky! Can you get him out of here. He needs attention. I'm not a doctor. He hasn't been himself since he came."
But Lambert wouldn't have it.
"Repeat that, Dolly," he commanded.
George walked to Dalrymple.
"You'll not say another word."
Dalrymple stood up, weaving his fingers in and out; as it were, clasping his hands to George.
"I'm sorry, Morton. Damn sorry. Forget—forget——"
His voice wandered into a difficult silence, as if he had seen this way, too, a chance of implicating himself with Sylvia's brother; but his eyes continued to beg George. They were like the eyes of an animal, caught in a net, beseeching release.
Goodhue gave him his hat. He took it but drew away from the other's touch on his arm.
"Don't think I'm not all right," he said in a frightened voice. "Took me by surprise, but I'm all right—quite all right. Going home."
He glanced at Lambert and again at George, then left the room, pulling at his necktie, Goodhue anxiously at his heels.
"What about it?" Lambert asked George sharply.
George sat down, still trying to rid himself of the black souvenirs of the encounter.
"Don't be a fool. I said nothing about your sister—nothing whatever."
He couldn't get rid of Dalrymple's begging eyes, yet why should he spare him at all?
"The rest of it," he went on, easily, "is between Dalrymple and me."
"I'm not sure," Lambert challenged.
He reminded George of the younger Lambert who had advanced with a whip in his hand.
"See here," he said. "You can't make me talk about anything I don't care to. I've told you I didn't mention your sister. I couldn't to that fellow."
Lambert spread his hands.
"What is there about you and Sylvia—ever since that day? I believe you, but I tried to give you a licking for her sake once, and I'd do it again."
George laughed pleasantly.
"You make me feel young."
Clearly Lambert meant to warn him, for he went on, still aggressive:
"I care more for her than anybody in the world."
The laughter left George's face.
"Anybody?"
Lambert was self-conscious now.
"Just about. See here. What are you driving at?"
George yawned.
"I must wash up. I've a lot of work to do."
"I'd like to know what went on here," Lambert said.
"Why don't you ask Dalrymple, then?"
"Dolly isn't all bad," Lambert offered as he left. "He's been my friend a good many years."
"Then by all means keep him," George answered, "and keep him to yourself; but when he comes around hang on to the ink pots."