“Well, then, I never found anything the least zig-zaggery about what he said or did. His words and ways were all straight. That is the truth.”
Yet Ian’s happy mood was instantly dashed by Ragnor’s manner. He did not take his offered hand and he said in a formal tone: “Ian, we will go to my office before we go to the house. I must ask thee some questions.”
“Very well, sir. Thora, I hope, is all right?”
“No. She has been very ill.”
“Then let me go to her, sir, at once.”
“Later, I will see about that.”
“Later is too late, let us go at once. If Thora is sick–––”
“Be patient. It is not well to talk of women on the street. No wise man, who loves his womenkin, does that.”
Then Ian was silent; and the walk through the busy streets was like a walk in a bad dream. The place and circumstances felt unreal and he was conscious of the sure presence of a force closing 214 about him, even to his finger tips. Vainly he tried to think. He felt the trouble coming nearer and nearer, but what was it? What had he done? What had he failed to do? What was he to be questioned about?
Young as he was his experiences had taught him to expect only injury and wrong. The Ragnor home and its love and truth had been the miracle that had for nine months turned his brackish water of life into wine. Was it going to fail him, as everything else had done? He laughed inwardly at the cruel thought and whispered to himself: “This, too, can be borne, but oh, Thora, Thora!” and the two words shattered his pride and made him ready to weep when he sat down in Ragnor’s office and saw the kind, pitiful face of the elder man looking at him. It gave him the power he needed and he asked bluntly what questions he was required to answer.