"I—I heard the man calling," she began timidly. "And I—I thought maybe the bears down in your street—"
"Ah, the bears!" He gave a bitter laugh.
So Miss Royle had told the truth! The hand in his tightened its hold. "Have the bears ever frightened you?" she asked, her voice trembling.
He did not answer at once, but put his head on one side and looked at her—for a full half-minute. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said; "yes, dear,—once or twice."
She had planned to spy out at least a strap of the harness he wore; to examine closely what sort of candles, if any, he burned in the seclusion of the library. Now she forgot to do either; could not have seen if she had tried. For her eyes were swimming, blinding her.
She swayed nearer him. "If—if you'd take Thomas along on your car," she suggested chokingly. "He hunted el'phunts once, and—and I don't need him."
Her father rose. He was not looking at her—but away, beyond the bowed windows, though the shades of these were drawn, the hangings were in place. And, "No!" he said hoarsely; "not yet! I'm not through fighting them yet!"
"Daddy!" Fear for him wrung the cry from her.
His eyes fell to her upturned face. And as if he saw the terror there, he knelt, suddenly all concern. "Who told you about the bears, Gwendolyn?"—with a note of displeasure.
"Miss Royle."