“I don’t think I understand,” mumbled Gregory Jessup.
“Of course ye don’t,” agreed Patsy. “I don’t, myself. But there’s one thing more I’ll be telling ye—if ye’ll swear never to let it pass your lips?”
Patsy paused for dramatic effect while Gregory Jessup bound himself twice over to secrecy. “Well,” she said, at length, “’tis this: If I had the road to travel again I’d pray to Saint Brendan to keep my feet fast to the wrong turn. That’s what!”
Patsy left him, still looking after her in a puzzled fashion; and with quickening steps she passed out of sight.
But once again did she stop; and again it was by a graveled driveway. She was deep in green memories when a figure in nurse’s uniform coming down the drive caught her attention. She was immediately reminded of two facts: that the Burgeman estate was in Arden, and that Burgeman senior was dying. Impulsively she turned toward the nurse.
“Is Mr. Burgeman any better this morning?”
“We hardly expect that.” The nurse’s tone was cordial but professionally cautious.
“I know”—Patsy nodded wisely, as if she had been following the case professionally herself—“but there is often a last rallying of strength. Isn’t there?”
“Sometimes. I hardly think there will be anything very lasting in Mr. Burgeman’s case. There are moments, now, when his strength and will are remarkably vigorous—any other man would be in his bed.”
“Oh! Then he is—up?”