"Of what?"
"Well, well!" cried the manager, delighted at the idea of surprising the doctor. "Miss Enschede and Mr. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon."
Emptiness; that was the doctor's initial sensation: his vitals had been whisked out of him and the earth from under his feet. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. He took the first step toward the stairs, and met the restraining hand of McClintock.
"Steady, old top! What are you going to do?"
"The damned scoundrel!"
"I told you that child was opal."
"She? My God, the pity of it! She knows nothing of life. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. Marriage! … without the least conception of the physical and moral responsibilities! It's a crime, Mac!"
"But what can you do?" McClintock turned to the manager. "'It was all perfectly legal?
"My word for it. The Reverend Henry Dolby performed the cermony, and his wife and daughter were witnesses."
"When you heard what was going on, why didn't you send for me?"