He gave an exclamation and caught her in his arms in a close clasp.
“Inga, Inga, don’t; it’s more than I can bear.”
“Promise, promise,” she said incoherently, and her hands fastened to his coat as she hid her head against his shoulder.
“I promise not to—to go without telling you why,” he said, at last. “Will that satisfy you?”
She caught his hand swiftly and pressed it against her heart. Then she went back hastily to the table and lit the light. O’Leary suddenly aroused, started up. It was almost four o’clock.
The next morning came Dangerfield’s lawyer, Judge Brangman, with his clerk, to confirm the news that Drinkwater had brought. The interview was private, even the clerk presently reappearing in the hall and departing. Judge Brangman was closeted a full two hours, and that the meeting was not without dissension was obvious, not only from the prolongation of the discussion but by the frequent rise of angry voices. Finally, the door opened on an evidently complete disagreement, for Dangerfield’s voice was heard saying:
“Judge, this is not a question of law; it is something—permit me—that you don’t seem to understand.”
“I only understand,” said the voice of the visitor, in high-pitched exasperation, “that you are beggaring yourself for a quixotic idea, and that I, as your legal adviser, have a right to protest.”
“Possibly. But my mind’s set. I like to buy the cur. See that the information is sent to me this afternoon—time and place.”
“Dan—a last time—won’t anything shake you?”