He went away with a thrill of sympathy inspiring his new resolution in behalf of the master’s interests. The spectacle that he closed the door on had pathos in it. The tyrant of the Noda was shut away from the woods where he had ruled—away from the rush of white water under the prow of his great bateau; he could hear only the tantalizing summons of the cataract whose thunder boomed above the village of Adonia.
Latisan had promised to send for the best doctors in the city—he had a messenger already on the way. But he knew well enough that Echford Flagg, if he lived, was doomed to sit in that big chair and wield his scepter vicariously. And Latisan knew, too, what sort of the torments of perdition Flagg would endure on that account.
In the office of Brophy’s tavern Rufus Craig, apparently a casual wayfarer, was sitting when Latisan entered after leaving the big house on the ledges.
Craig either felt or assumed contrite concern. “Excuse me, Latisan, but is it true that Mr. Flagg has suffered a stroke of paralysis?”
“It is true, sir.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not on pleasant terms with him, or with you, for that matter. But I hate to see a good fighter struck down.”
Latisan went to the desk and wrote his name on a leaf of the dog-eared register. He proposed to stay the night at Brophy’s and start north in the morning.
“Go up and take Number Ten,” said Brophy, who had been called as a helper and who had walked down from the mansion with Latisan.
When Craig plodded heavily along the upper corridor, on his way to bed a little later, the door of Number Ten was open for ventilation; Latisan was smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper which he had picked up in the tavern office. His stare, directed at Craig over the top of the newspaper, was inhospitable when the Comas man stopped and leaned against the door jamb.
“Latisan, I’m presuming on that frankness of yours; you have bragged about it in the past.”