But when the group separated and the Doctor purred up the hill in his electric, his heart was sore within him and he spoke to the wife of his bosom of the burden that was on his heart. Then, after a dinner scarcely tasted, the Doctor hurried down town to meet with the men at Brotherton’s.
As Mrs. Nesbit saw the electric dip under the hill, her first impulse was to call up her daughter on the telephone, who was at Foley that evening. For be it remembered Mrs. Nesbit in the days of her prime was dubbed “the General” by George Brotherton, and when she saw the care and hovering fear in the pink, old face of the man she loved, she was not the woman to sit and rock. She had to act and, because she feared she would be stopped, she did not pick up the telephone receiver. She went to the library, where Kenyon 590Adams with his broken leg in splints was sitting while Lila read to him. She stood looking at the lovers for a moment.
“Children,” she said, “Grant Adams is in great danger. We must help him.”
To their startled questions, she answered: “He is asking your father, Lila, to release him from the prison to-night. If he is not released, a mob will take Grant as they took that poor fool last night and–” She stopped, turned toward them a perturbed and fear-wrinkled face. Then she said quickly: “I don’t know that I owe Grant Adams anything but–you children do–” She did not complete her sentence, but burst out: “I don’t care for Tom Van Dorn’s court, his grand folderol and mummery of the law. He’s going to send a man to death to-night because his masters demand it. And we must stop it–you and Lila and I, Kenyon.”
Kenyon reached out, tried to rise and failed, but grasped her strong, effective hand, as he cried: “What can we do–what can I do?”
She went into the Doctor’s office and brought out two old crutches.
“Take these,” she said, “then I’ll help you down the porch steps–and you go to your mother! That’s what you can do. Maybe she can stop him–she has done a number of other worse things with him.”
She literally lifted the tottering youth down the veranda steps and a few moments later his crutches were rattling upon the stone steps that rose in front of the proud house of Van Dorn. Margaret had seen him coming and met him before he rang the bell.
She looked the dreadful wonder in her mind and as he took her hand to steady himself, he spoke while she was helping him to sit.
“You are my mother,” he said simply. “I know it now.” He felt her hand tighten on his arm. She bent over him and with finger on lips, whispered: “Hush, hush, the maid is in there–what is it, Kenyon?”