“I had not forgotten,” curtly. “I propose that she go with us.”
A faint “Oh!” escaped Helen, otherwise she made no comment, and McIntyre, after contemplating her for a minute, looked away.
“Either go to Atlantic City with us, Helen, or resume your normal, everyday life,” he said shortly. “I am tired of heroics; Jimmie Turnbull was hardly the man to inspire them.”
“Stop!” Helen's voice rang out imperiously. “I will not permit one word said in disparagement of Jimmie, least of all from you, father. Wait,” as he attempted to speak. “I do not know what traits of character I may have inherited from you, but I have all mother's loyalty, and—that loyalty belongs to Jimmie.”
McIntyre's eyes shifted under her gaze.
“I regret very much this obsession,” he said rising. “I will not attempt to reason with you again, Helen, but”—he made no effort to lower his voice, “the world—our world will soon know what manner of man James Turnbull was, of that I am determined.”
“And I”—Helen faced her father proudly—“I will leave no stone unturned to defend his memory.”
Her father wheeled about. “In doing so, see that you do not compromise yourself,” he remarked coldly, and before the infuriated girl could answer, he slammed the door shut and stalked downstairs.
Some half hour later he opened the door of Rochester and Kent's law office and would have walked unceremoniously into Kent's private office had not John Sylvester stepped forward from behind his desk in the corner.
“Good morning, Colonel,” he said civilly. “Mr. Kent is not here. Do you wish to leave any message?”