“You didn’t make clear to me what the motives of this person who tries to control your movements are. You didn’t tell me—”
The man moved his hand before his face, like one trying to brush away imaginary flies.
“I suppose she has her motives,” he said fretfully. “And very likely they’re good. I’ll not deny that. But I can’t make her see that this constant espionage—this everlasting watchfulness is not to be borne. I want freedom, and by God I’ll have it!”
He sprang from his chair and began pacing the room.
Wesley Elliot stared at his visitor without speaking. He perceived that the man dragged his feet, as if from excessive fatigue or weakness.
“I had no thought of such a thing,” the stranger went on. “I’d planned, as a man will who looks forward to release from—from a hospital, how I’d go about and see my old neighbors. I wanted to have them in for dinners and luncheons—people I haven’t seen for years. She knows them. She can’t excuse herself on that ground. She knows you.”
He stopped short and eyed the minister, a slow grin spreading over his face.
“The last time you were at my house I had a good mind to walk in and make your acquaintance, then and there. I heard you talking to her. You admire my daughter: that’s easy to see; and she’s not such a bad match, everything considered.”
“Who are you?” demanded the young man sharply.
“I am a man who’s been dead and buried these eighteen years,” replied the other. “But I’m alive still—very much alive; and they’ll find it out.”