“That’s strange,” Latham said musingly, pondering as in all his thoughtful years of reflection he had never pondered before.
Hugh was speechless. Stephen picked up a cigarette, and laid it down again, with a bitter smile—the hopeless smile of final defeat.
“Just before he died,” Helen said.
“‘David Copperfield,’” Latham exclaimed; “of course—I remember now. Those words you just said were a quotation from ‘David Copperfield’—where he passes the blind beggar.”
“I think you are wrong, Latham.” Stephen Pryde made his last throw more in cynical indifference than in desperation. His long game was up: that was the special message that had come through to him. But he’d fight on, cool and callous now, and meet his defeat in the last ditch of all—not an inch sooner.
“No,” Latham said sternly; “I am not wrong.”
“Yes,” Stephen smiled with slight contemptuousness as he said it; “I am sure you are.”
“I’ll show you,” Latham retorted. He went to the bookcase and took down the ‘David Copperfield’ volume.
“Yes,” Helen said quietly; “‘David Copperfield’ has a message for me—from Daddy.”
“This is nonsense,” Stephen said impatiently. “Latham, I appeal to you.”