“Have you quarreled?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know why she wished to have Vesta sent home?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No, sir,” said Durward, determined, for ’Lena’s sake, that no one should wring from him the secret.
John Jr. arose, jammed both hands into his pockets—walked to the window—made faces at the weather—walked back to the grate—made faces at that—kicked it—and then turning to Durward, said, “There’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere.”
Nothing from Durward, who only felt bound to answer direct questions.
“I tell you, there’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere,” continued John, raising his voice. “I knew it all the while ’Lena was sick. I read it in her face when I told her Mr. Graham had gone south——”
A faint sickness gathered around Durward’s heart, and John Jr. proceeded: “She wouldn’t tell me, and I’ve come to you for information. Will you give it to me?”