“And you’ve left her there with that––”
Huntington was going to say “ruffian,” but was checked by a sudden recollection, as well as by the look 157 that Hillyer flashed at him. For a moment the two men faced each other, the one with anger boiling up inside of him, the other struggling to put down the resentment aroused by Huntington’s belligerent tone. Claire crushed the slip of paper in her hand, and watched them fearfully.
“I judge from your manner,” said Hillyer at length, when he had controlled himself, “that you dislike her being there as much as I do. But as I am all in the dark, I’ll be greatly obliged to you if you will answer my question. Who is Philip Haig?”
“That’s what I’d like to know!” blurted out Huntington.
Hillyer made a gesture of impatience.
“But he’s your neighbor,” he said curtly.
“And that’s about all I know of him,” Huntington replied, “except that we ought to have run him out of the Park long ago, and will do it yet, so help me God!”
“Why?” asked Hillyer shortly.
Then, as clearly as he could in his rage, Seth gave Hillyer a brief account of the events of the four years that Haig had been in the Park,––an account that satisfied Hillyer as little as it had satisfied Marion. He had meant, in the beginning, to ask how Marion had come to know Haig, and if they had been much together; but he now surmised that Huntington and his wife were as ignorant as himself of that acquaintanceship, or friendship, or whatever it was that could have made possible the astounding emotions he had seen on Marion’s face. Hillyer’s situation was difficult. If Marion had a secret he must guard it for her, whatever it 158 might cost him. Yet now he needed help, and no one could help him but Huntington and his wife. And at the first words on the subject, Huntington had (more in the tone of his speech than the matter) shown him that little help could be expected in that quarter. Last of all, and not to be forgotten, he was the Huntingtons’ guest.
“How bad’s he hurt?” asked Huntington.