Robert crouched where he had fallen. The baize door swung back, and touched him very softly like a hand out of the dark. It comforted him. It reminded him that he had only to choose, and it would stand between him and this threatening terror—that it would give him time to rush back down the stone stairs—out into the street—further and further till they would never find him again. But he could not move. He couldn't leave Christine like that. His heart was sick with pity for her. Why did his father speak to her like that? Didn't he see how good and faithful she was? Didn't he know that he, Robert, his son, had no one else in the whole world?
His father was speaking more clearly—shouting each word by itself.
"You understand what I say, Christine. Either you do what I tell you, or you get out of here; and, by God, this time you shan't come back. You'll never set eyes on him again."
"I shall always take care of Robert. I promised Constance when she was dying. She begged of me——"
"It's a lie—a damned lie! You're not fit to have control over my son.
You can't be trusted. You're a bad friend——"
"I have done all I can. I have told you there is only one thing left—to sell this house—-start afresh."
"Very well, then. That's your last word—and mine."
Suddenly it was still. The stillness was more terrible than anything Robert had ever heard. He gulped and turned like a small, panic-stricken animal. At the bottom of the stairs against the light from the kitchen he could see the bailiff's bulky, honest shadow.
"Look 'ere, little mister, what's wrong up there? Anything I can do——"
The silence was gone. It was broken by the overturning of a chair, by a quiet, sinister scuffling—Edith's voice whining, terrified, thrilled by a silly triumph.