“Young man, your last expression is obsolete. But of course the project is impossible now. Those that I counted on to help me are gone. My wife is dead, my son is dead, and my grandson—my God! Why was it necessary to drown that boy?”
The fingers tightened round the stem of the wineglass and snapped it. The hand sprawled over broken glass and flowing wine, and began to shake violently.
Marvin rose and grasped the wrist, and put his left arm around the quivering shoulders.
“Steady, grandfather. Be a good lord.”
The suggestion had its effect. The patient gasped and gasped, but made a supreme effort to control his emotions. Gradually the pulse slowed up, the lips assumed a better tint, and he lay back quietly. When able again to speak, he gave an invitation.
“Stay with me a week. May round the stake by that time.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do it.”
Chapter 59. Praseodymium
As Ambrose Rich had found his son again in an Indian boy, so the baron seemed to have found again his own grandson. As twin elements of a rare earth are almost inseparable, so are beloved images in a fading mind.
Marvin found the days pleasant enough, there in the flickering shadows of oak leaves lightly stirred. Each morning he talked with his host. Each afternoon he rode the baron’s favorite horse, or had a round of one-handed tennis with the secretary, or motored.