Cunningham reached blindly for the nearest chair and collapsed in it.
An hour later. The four of them were still in the main salon. Jane sat at the head of the 254 lounge, and from time to time she took Dennison’s pulse and temperature. She had finally deduced that there had been no serious concussion. Cleigh sat at the foot of the lounge, his head on his hands. Cunningham occupied the chair into which he had collapsed. Three ugly flesh wounds, but nothing a little time would not heal. True, he had had a narrow squeak. He sat with his eyes closed.
“Why?” asked Jane suddenly, breaking the silence.
“What?” said Cleigh, looking up.
“Why these seven years—if you cared? I heard you say something about being too late. Why?”
“I’m a queer old fool. An idea, when it enters my head, sticks. I can’t shift my plans easily; I have to go through. What you have witnessed these several days gives you the impression that I have no heart. That isn’t true. But we Cleighs are pigheaded. Until he was sent to Russia he was never from under the shadow of my hand. My agents kept me informed of all his moves, his adventures. The mistake was originally mine. I put him in charge of an old scholar who taught him art, music, languages, but little or nothing about human beings. I gave him a liberal allowance; but he was a queer lad, and Broadway never heard of him. Now I hold that youth must have its fling in some manner or other; after 255 thirty there is no cure for folly. So when he ran away I let him go; but he never got so far away that I did not know what he was doing. I liked the way he rejected the cash I gave him; the way he scorned to trade upon the name. He went clean. Why? I don’t know. Oh, yes, he got hilariously drunk once in a while, but he had his fling in clean places. I had agents watching him.”
“Why did he run away?” asked Jane.
“No man can tell another man; a man has to find it out for himself—the difference between a good woman and a bad one.”
“I play that statement to win,” interposed Cunningham without opening his eyes.