Daniel frowned. He had had his suspicions of the whisky before, though his father had never told him of his own surmises. He limped quickly over to William’s door, found it unlocked, and walked in.
The shades were still drawn and the electric lights switched on. William lay stretched on an old couch in the corner, his arms under his head. At first Daniel thought he was drunk, but as their eyes met he saw that William was terribly sober. He had a look in his eyes that gave his brother a shock. It was the look of a man who coveted death.
The couch was one of those high-backed affairs with a low arm at each end. Daniel sat down on the arm at William’s feet.
“Fanchon’s ill,” he said quietly. “You’d better go home and see her, William.”
William looked at him intently for a moment, then spoke in a voice so changed that it was startling.
“I don’t want to see her,” he said coolly. “I don’t care if I never see her again.”
“She’s your wife, all the same,” Daniel remarked dryly, “and she’s going to help me save Leigh.”
“I’m done with her,” William retorted.
“You can’t say that—you won’t say it—if she sacrifices herself for us,” returned Daniel, watching him.
“I’m done with her,” William repeated, and closed his eyes, evidently considering that he had closed the subject.