She laughed again and began walking up and down, her hands clenched, trying to think of some way out.
"Poor Dad, just when he needs all his courage to go on fighting! This, too, has broken him up. That's the only sort of a blow he couldn't get over."
The butler came in at this moment, announcing dinner.
"No, no; not for me," she said. "I couldn't; but you, perhaps?"
"No, not until your father comes back."
The butler went out. Bojo held out his hand to her, saying: "Come here; sit down by me." Worn out by the strain of emotions, she obeyed quietly. She came to take a seat on the sofa beside him, looked a moment into his eyes, saw the depths of tenderness and sympathy there and with a tired, fleeting smile laid her head gratefully on his shoulder.
It was almost eleven o'clock before Drake came wearily in. They were exhausted with the long tensity of their vigil, waiting for every sound that would announce his arrival, but at his entrance they stood up, vibrantly alert. One glance at Drake, at the hunted and harassed look across his forehead told Bojo that the worst had happened. Patsie went to her father bravely with a steady smile that never wavered and put her arms around his neck.
"Pretty bad, isn't it, Dad?" she said.
He nodded, incapable for the moment of speech.
"I am so sorry. Never mind, even if we have to begin at the bottom we will win out again."