“I insist! It is not to be thought of, Dr Hodder. He must remain in this house. I will get his room ready for him. He is—to—stay—here!”
“Well, we'll see,” said the surprised surgeon, and forthwith put her out of his mind.
James Brood was standing stock-still and rigid in the centre of the room. He had not moved an inch from the position he had taken when the doctor pushed him aside in order to clear the way to the table. Yvonne came straight to him. The matter of half a yard separated them as she stopped and spoke to him, her voice so low that the bustling doctor could not have distinguished a word.
“You owe it to Frederic to allow Ranjab's story to stand. There is no one to dispute it. I command you to protect the good name of your son. That weapon was accidentally discharged by your servant, and you will have to swear to it, James Brood, if called upon to do so, for I shall swear to it, and Ranjab, too.”
“I shall conceal nothing,” he groaned. “Do you think I am a craven coward as well as a———”
“Nevertheless, you will do as I command. He is going to live. That is why I demand it of you. If he were to die—well, even then you would not be permitted to speak. I shall stand here beside you, James Brood, and if you utter one word to contradict Ranjab's story I shall shoot you down. Can you not see how desperately in earnest I am?” She reached over and caught up the revolver from the chair as she was speaking.
For a full minute they looked into each other's eyes, and he—the strong, invulnerable Brood—was the first to give way. The steely glitter faded before the swift rush of a new feeling that swept over him—an extraordinary feeling of tenderness toward this woman who fought him with something more than her own cause at stake.
“I understand. You are right. If he gets well, this beastly thing must never be known. We will leave it to him. If he chooses to tell the truth, then———”
“I have your promise—now?” she demanded intensely.
“Yes. Now go!” Involuntarily he straightened his tall figure and pointed toward the door.