Manifestly this would never do. Noreen felt uncomfortable in her probing. She must make him see how important anything he might say would be not only to her, but to the Man.... As for what the boy knew, an analyst, or, better, an alienist, would be necessary to piece into a garment of reason his poor little patches of understanding, in regard to what he had heard that night—names of men and places and deeds outside of Bookstalls. The fact that Johnny Brodie did not understand, was no reason why he should uncover his patches to this woman who understood so much. He was a little afraid of her, and not a little sorry that he had come. He felt, in spite of himself, that his face was telling her that he knew a great deal about that night. He squirmed.
Noreen sensed many of his mental operations, arose and knelt before him, her elbows upon his knees, and looked up into his face.
“Boy,” she whispered, “you are very good and dear to me for trying to keep his secrets. He is a great and good man, who means very much to you and to me. He is doing for some one else (who cannot love him as you and I do) a great thing and a hard thing, which keeps him away from us. So long as the secret is kept, Boy, he will have to stay away, but if we knew the secret we could bring him back to us and be very happy.... I want you to tell me all that you know, all that you heard that night while the visitor was there—but before you do you must understand that you are doing only good for him. His good, his welfare, is life and death to me. I love this man, Johnny Brodie, I think even better than you do. Won’t you help me to bring him back?”
His eyes were wide with temptation. He longed to consult her about the laughing stranger who had pumped him. Many things had happened to him in twelve flying, graceless years, but nothing like this. Never would come another moment like this—with the woman, whom Bookstalls had gasped at the sight of, kneeling before him. The fate of a city might well have wavered in the balance before the pleading of such a woman. He had a premonitive sense that this moment would become more significant the older he grew. She overturned half his resistance with the single fact of sharing with him the possession of the Man and acknowledging his almost co-equal rights in all that pertained. It was not her interest, but their interest.... And then—the seething curiosity for months—this woman could tell him why the Man wanted the Hate of London! There could be no mistake about this last. The Man had begged for it in many ways and in such language as was never heard in Bookstalls, except in the Socialist’s Hall. How could one old man, all scarred and shot up, give him the Hate of London?
At this instant Jerry Cardinegh opened the door from the dining-room. Noreen felt the little body turn rigid under her hands and saw the thin jaw tighten. As she turned hastily to her father, she heard Johnny Brodie’s voice—the voice of one who has triumphed over temptation:
“Ask ’im! Wot yer askin’ me fer—wen ’e knows?”
She hurried to lead her father back into the dining-room, but he could not stir. His eyes had fixed themselves upon the boy, and seemed to be draining from him some deadly poison. His liquor betrayed him, as it ever betrays the old and the fallen. The tissue it had sustained collapsed in his veins and the low light left his brain. Only there remained horror as of a basilisk upon his face. His bright, staring eyes had a look of isolation in the midst of altered ashen features.
It was too much for Johnny Brodie—this quick formation of havoc on the face that had been florid and smiling. Moreover, he saw the conspiracy against him in the woman and the old man. He clapped his hand to his pocket—the cap was where it belonged—bolted into the hall and down the stairs.
Noreen’s lips formed to call his name, but the look of her father forbade. She heard the slam of the front door.