“Something, at least,” I answered, “and I am very sorry for it. But I don’t quite understand it.”
“Well, I do; and I’m going to put an end to it. I’m going to have it out with Ned Keene. He is breaking her heart.”
“But are you the right one to take the matter up?”
“Who else is there to do it?”
“Her father.”
“He sees nothing, comprehends nothing. ‘Practical type—poetic type—misunderstandings sure to arise—come together after a while each supply the other’s deficiencies.’ Cursed folly! And the girl so unhappy that she can’t tell anyone. It shall not go on, I say. Keene is out on the road now, taking one of his infernal walks. I’m going to meet him.”
“I’m afraid it will make trouble. Let me go with you.”
“The trouble is made. Come if you like. I’m going now.”
The night lay heavy upon the forest. Where the road dipped through the valley we could hardly see a rod ahead of us. But higher up where the way curved around the breast of the mountain, the woods were thin on the left, and on the right a sheer precipice fell away to the gorge of the brook. In the dim starlight we saw Keene striding toward us. Graham stepped out to meet him.
“Where have you been, Ned Keene?” he cried. The cry was a challenge. Keene lifted his head and stood still. Then he laughed and took a step forward.