"Uncle Bernard, may I ask you what brings Serena Lynne to this house? She is my bitter enemy, my persecutor. I prefer to go to some other place while that woman is here!"
Old Bernard Dane's sunken eyes flashed.
"You've got the Dane grit and the Dane temper, my dear," he snarled. "But I advise you to keep it well in hand when you are with me. The ladies who are here—yes"—as he marked the sudden start with which Beatrix heard his words—"Mrs. Lynne is with her daughter, of course. Eminently proper, to be sure; you surely did not think that Miss Serena Lynne would come clear from the North all alone to visit Keith?"
"I don't know, I am sure. She is capable of a great deal," intervened Beatrix. Then she added softly: "Oh, forgive me, Uncle Bernard. I do not mean to be harsh, and ill-tempered, and spiteful; but the sight of that woman just stirs up every uncomfortable attribute of my nature. Uncle Bernard, did you ever know any one who affected you in that way—the very sight of whom would stir up all the worst dregs of your nature and tempt you to do deeds for which you were afterward sorry?"
A dull crimson dyed the old man's wrinkled cheeks for an instant.
"Did I? Humph! Yes; 'in my salad days, when I was green in judgment'—when I had good reason to shrink from the sight of my evil genius, Guy Kenyon."
"Guy Kenyon—my father!" interrupted Keith, excitedly. "Now, Uncle Bernard, you must tell me something about him; for you have never told me anything and I know so little of him."
"You will never learn any more from me," returned the old man, harshly, arising to his feet. "And now I must go and interview Simons. That rascally nigger is getting unmanageable. One would think that he was the master here from the way that he conducts himself lately."
He left the room and closed the door behind him. Out in the hall he came to a pause, clinching his shaking hands upon the head of his cane, his face pale and agitated, a look in the depths of his sunken dark eyes which was not pleasant to see.