"No—he won't unless you tell him."
He looked up at her with dumb, uncomprehending eyes and sank in his chair again, still grasping the photographs.
"I must think," he groaned, "I've got to think—what to do. I've hated him so—all these long years. I hate him now—not because he's my—my father—but because—he's himself."
"Stop, Jeff, you mustn't—you mustn't speak so."
"It's true," raising his bloodshot eyes to hers. "Why should I care? Did he care for the atom he's put into the world to float about without a name to land on any dung-hill? I'll pay him back for that, by God! I'm not his son. The only thing I want of his blood is his cruelty. I'll take that and use it when I can—on him and his."
"You mustn't, Jeff. It's horrible. I can't stand hearing this."
At the touch of her hand he stopped, got up and paced the length of the room and back again in grim silence, his lips working, while she watched him, fearful of another outburst.
"I must think this thing out, Camilla—by myself. I don't know what I'll do." And then suddenly, "Where is he now?" he asked harshly.
"In Denver—at the Brown Palace Hotel. They came West before I did with the Janneys, Gretchen, and Mrs. Rumsen. They came in a private car."
"To be in at my finish," he muttered bitterly. "I can't seem to think, Camilla. It's all so monstrous—it staggers me."