The great old house was very still. Somewhere in a shadowed room an old man slept heavily with his servant sitting stiff and straight beside him, at the head of the stairway a painted bride smiled in the darkness, the dog Muffin stirred and whined.
Derry's head was buried deep in the cushion. His hands clutched the letter which had cut the knot of his desperate decision.
No—one could not break a promise to a mother in Heaven.…
He waked heavily in the morning. Bronson was beside his bed. "I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but Dr. McKenzie would like to speak to you."
"McKenzie?"
"Yes, sir. I had to call him last night. Your father was worse."
"Bring him right in here, Bronson, and have some coffee for us."
When Dr. McKenzie was ushered into Derry's sitting room, he found a rather pale and languid young man in the long chair.
"I hated to wake you, Drake. But it was rather necessary that I should talk your father's case over with you."
"Is he very ill?"