Hodder had gone to James Brood at the end of the third day and, with the sweat of the haunted on his brow, had whispered hoarsely that the case was out of his hands. He was no longer the doctor, but an agent governed by a spirit that would not permit death to claim its own. And somehow Brood understood far better than the man of science.
The true story of the shooting had long been known to Lydia and her mother. Brood confessed everything to them. He assumed all of the blame for what had transpired on that tragic morning. He humbled himself before them, and when they shook their heads and turned their backs upon him he was not surprised, for he knew they were not convicting him of assault with a deadly firearm. Later on the story of Thérèse was told by him to Frederic and the girl. He did his wife no injustice in the recital.
Frederic laid his hand upon the soft brown head at his knee and voiced the thought that was in his mind.
“You are wondering, as I am, too, what is to become of Yvonne after to-day,” he said. “There must be an end, and if it doesn't come now, when will it come? To-morrow we sail. It is certain that she is not to accompany us. She has said so herself, and father has said so. So to-day must see the end of things.”
“Frederic, I want you to do something for me,” said Lydia earnestly. “There was a time when I could not have asked this of you, but now I implore you to speak to your father in her behalf. I love her, Freddy dear. I cannot help it. She asks nothing of any of us; she expects nothing, and yet she loves all of us. If he only would unbend toward her a little———”
“Listen, Lyddy dear. I don't believe it's altogether up to him. There is a barrier that we can't see, but they do, both of them. My mother stands between them. You see, I've come to know my father lately, dear. He's not a stranger to me any longer. I know what sort of a heart he's got. He never got over loving my mother, and he'll never get over knowing that Yvonne knows that she loved him to the day she died.
“We know what it was in Yvonne that attracted him from the first, and she knows. He's not likely to forgive himself so easily. He didn't play fair with either of them, that's what I'm trying to get at. I don't believe he can forgive himself any more than he can forgive Yvonne for the thing she set about to do.
“You see, Lyddy, she married him without love. She debased herself, even though she can't admit it even now. I love her, too. She's the most wonderful woman in the world. But she did give herself to the man she hated with all her soul and—well, there you are. He can't forget that, you know, and she can't. She loves him for herself now, and that's what hurts both of them. It hurts because they both know that he still loves my mother.”
“She's his wife, however,” said Lydia, with a stubborn pursing of the lips. “She didn't wrong him, and, after all, she's only guilty of—well, she isn't guilty of anything except being a sister of the girl he wronged.”
“I'll have a talk with him if you think best,” said he, an eager gleam in his eyes.