“Hush! A man does not hate his son. I've tried for years to drive that silly notion out of your mind. You——”
“Oh, I know I'm a fool to speak of it, but I—I can't help feeling as I do. You've seen enough to know that I'm not to blame for it, either. And then—oh, what's the use whining about it? I've got to make the best of it, so I'll try to keep my mouth closed.”
“Where is the message?”
“I threw it into the fire.”
“What!”
“I was furious.”
“Won't you tell me?”
“What do you think he has done? Can you guess what he has done to all of us?” She did not answer. “Well, I'll tell you just what he said in that wireless. It was from the Lusitania, twelve hundred miles off Sandy Hook—relayed, I suppose, so that the whole world might know—sent at four this afternoon. I remember every word of the cursed thing, although I merely glanced at it.
“'Send the car to meet Mrs Brood and me at the Cunard pier Thursday. Have Mrs Desmond put the house in order for its new mistress. By the way, you might inform her that I was married last Wednesday in Paris.' It was signed 'James Brood,' not even 'father.' What do you think of that for a thunderbolt?”
“Married?” she gasped. “Your father married?”