Though he had made a hearty dinner, the explanation he suggested did not satisfy the others, and Ruth thought it significant that he had made it so promptly. They did not, however, trouble him with questions, and after a while he rose and walked to another chair.
“The car won’t be needed,” Aynsley said to Osborne.
“The car?” Clay interposed. “What did you want it for?”
“We had thought of sending for a doctor,” Aynsley answered deprecatingly.
Clay frowned.
“Shucks! You’re easily scared; I wouldn’t have seen him. Where’s that bottle?” He slipped it hastily into his pocket and turned to Ruth. “Very sorry all this happened; feel ashamed of myself. Now I wonder whether you’ll give us some music.”
They went into the drawing-room, and Clay chose an easy chair at some distance from the others. He cared nothing for music, but he felt shaky, and he was glad of an excuse for sitting quiet. Moreover, he wanted time to think. It looked as if the doctor, whom he had begun to doubt, had after all been right. He had had a warning which he could not neglect; and as he rather vacantly watched the girl at the piano it was borne in upon him that she had probably saved his life. The others had thought him insensible, but she had guessed that he was feeling for the remedy which had pulled him round.
It was a pity she had refused Aynsley, but he bore her no ill-will, although he was generally merciless to those who thwarted him. He would have liked to thank her, but that was inadvisable, for he must not admit that he had had a dangerous attack. Then it struck him that if he were seriously threatened, it might be well to take precautions. There was a good offer he had received for some property he wished to sell, but he had not answered because all the terms were not settled, and he did not wish to seem eager. It might be better to close the matter now. When he had thanked Ruth for the song, he quietly made his way to Osborne’s writing-room.
It was necessary to write several letters, and he found his fingers nerveless and composition difficult. Indeed, he laid the pen down and then resolutely took it up again. He was not going to be beaten by a bodily weakness, and nobody must notice that his writing was shaky. He tore up the first letter and wrote it again in a firm, legible hand, though the sweat the effort cost him gathered on his forehead. His schemes must be completed and all his affairs straightened out before he gave in. The man was ruthless and unscrupulous, but he had unflinching courage and an indomitable will.
In the billiard-room Osborne was talking to Aynsley.