“Yes, sir, it was that. How queer that you should know about them.”
Philip’s face had paled, and they all observed the fact, though no one commented upon it.
“I knew relatives of theirs who are now dead,” said Philip. “I shall call on them.”
It was as much as Philip could do to sit till the meal finished. He wanted to start there and then to look on this living image of his lost Eweretta.
He excused himself as soon as he could and set out across the fields to the White House dazzling now in the light of the sun.
As he walked, he reproached himself for having so readily credited the evil he had heard spoken of “The Thirteenth Man.”
He had come into poor Eweretta’s money, and he had tried to undo the injustice of his brother regarding Mrs. Le Breton and her ill-fated child. He had brought them to his new English home to share the fortune. He had condemned himself for their sake to this solitary life.
Strange, indeed, that he, Philip, should have come to their very gates to live! From the bungalow he could see the White House lights at night. Curiously enough, as he remembered this he took a sorrowful pleasure in the fact.
Aimée Le Breton—poor, afflicted Aimée Le Breton—was, as it seemed to him, the last bit left to him of the one he had so adored.
To show this girl some kindness would be like putting flowers on that grave far away at Qu’Appelle.