“Begging your pardon, sir, there’s a young woman outside wants to see you. Says her name is—her name is—is——”
RoBards snapped at him:
“Speak up, man. What’s the terrible name?”
“Mrs. David RoBards, Junior.”
This word “Junior” wrenched an old wound open and RoBards whipped off his glasses shot with instant tears. He snarled less in anger than in anguish:
“What are you saying? My poor boy had no wife.”
“So I told her, sir. But she insists he did, and—and—well, hadn’t you better see her? I can’t seem to get rid of her.”
RoBards rose with difficulty and stalked forth. Leaning against the rail in the outer office was a shabby mother with a babe at her frugal breast. RoBards spread his elbows wide to brace himself in the door while he fumbled for his distance glasses.
They brought to his eyes with abrupt sharpness the wistful face of Aletta Lasher, as he had seen her perched on the rock in the Tarn of Mystery that day, when she bemoaned her helpless love for his son.
She came to him now, slowly, sidlingly, the babe held backward a little as if to keep it from any attack he might make. To verify his wild guesses, he said: