She could not make head or tail of what he was saying or to whom he was referring, as he went on babbling his story of fear, a story interspersed with wild imprecations against “him.”
“Tell your father, dearie, what I said to you.” He became suddenly calmer. “Matilda said I ought to have told your father, but I’m afraid of him, my dear, I’m afraid of him!”
He took one of her hands in his and fondled it.
“You’ll speak a word for me, won’t you?” She knew he was weeping, though she could not see his face.
“Of course I’ll speak a word for you, Mr. Maitland. Oughtn’t you to see a doctor?” she asked anxiously.
“No, no, no doctors for me. But tell him, won’t you—not your father, I mean, the other feller—that I did all I could for you. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. They’ve got Balder——” He stopped short suddenly and craned his head forward. “Is that your father?” he asked in a husky whisper.
She had heard the footsteps of John Bennett on the stairs.
“Yes, I think it is, Mr. Maitland,” and at her words he pulled his hand from hers with a jerk and went shuffling down the pathway into the road and out of sight.
“What did he want?”
“I really don’t know, father,” she said. “I don’t think he can be very well.”