“What is she going to do?” I asked, trembling. “What does she suspect?”
“Nothing definite,” he answered, quickly. “She is bewildered. She is going to stay here and watch. I am afraid that she will send for a detective. It is not that she has any suspicion as to your father. It is you whom she distrusts—you and Adelaide. She thinks that you are trying to keep your father from her. She thinks that he could tell her—what she wants to know. That is all.”
“It is quite enough!” I cried, passionately. “If only we could get her to go away. I am afraid of her.”
We were standing by the gate, I held out my hand to him; he grasped it warmly.
“Remember my advice to your father,” he said. “I shall do my utmost to prevent the girl from taking any extreme measures. Fortunately she considers herself under some obligation to me.”
“You saved her life,” I remarked, thoughtfully.
“Yes, I am sorry for it,” he added, curtly. “Goodbye.”
He turned away and I hurried into the house. Alice was nowhere about. I went softly into my father’s room. He was dozing, and as I stood over him and saw how pale and thin his face was, my heart grew sick and sorrowful. The tears stood in my eyes. After all, it was a noble face; I longed to have that barrier broken down between us, to hear the truth from his own lips, and declare myself boldly on his side—even if it were the side of the outlaw and the sinner. As I stood there, he opened his eyes. They were dull and glazed.
“You are ill, father,” I said, softly, “you will get worse if you will not have advice. Let me go and bring the doctor?”
“You will do no such thing,” he answered, firmly. “I am better—much better.”