XVIII
Goodhue caught Lambert's arm. In a flash George read the meaning of Dalrymple's charge. Naturally he was the one to do something of the sort, had to try it. He had been afraid of Lambert's knowing of the loan. How much less could he let Lambert learn why George had justifiably shut his mouth.
"Keep quiet," George warned Lambert. "Dicky! Can you get him out of here. He needs attention. I'm not a doctor. He hasn't been himself since he came."
But Lambert wouldn't have it.
"Repeat that, Dolly," he commanded.
George walked to Dalrymple.
"You'll not say another word."
Dalrymple stood up, weaving his fingers in and out; as it were, clasping his hands to George.
"I'm sorry, Morton. Damn sorry. Forget—forget——"
His voice wandered into a difficult silence, as if he had seen this way, too, a chance of implicating himself with Sylvia's brother; but his eyes continued to beg George. They were like the eyes of an animal, caught in a net, beseeching release.