Part 26 (1/2)

The woman flushed scarlet. ”Well,” she said half-defiantly, ”in a way I did, but I can't see that it makes any difference to you. I'm living here quietly, seeing no one, having nothing to do with any one, I should think it was all the same to you.”

”That,” answered Gordon evenly, ”I imagine should have been left for me to decide. However, we needn't discuss it now. You're here, evidently, and taking care of my friend Lynch. I suppose, incidentally, of course your coming back had nothing to do with him.”

The woman's eyes did not meet his. ”Of course not,” she lied glibly.

”Why should you think such a thing?”

The governor raised his eyebrows. ”Oh, it simply crossed my mind,” he said indifferently; ”seeing you here, taking care of him, I suppose.

He's really pretty sick, is he?”

”Is he?” echoed the woman. ”I should say he was. He's so weak; that's the trouble. He can hardly lift a finger. But he'll get well; it's just a question of rest, and decent care; that's all.”

Gordon rose abruptly. ”Well,” he said, ”I guess I'll go up and see him. Which room is he in?”

”Head of the stairs,” she answered, ”first door on the right. The only room with a light. You can't miss it. I'll be back in half an hour.”

She had reached the door as she spoke, seemingly not anxious to delay her departure.

”One minute!” called Gordon sharply. ”You understand, of course, that my being here to-night is absolutely to be kept secret. I shouldn't want you to make any mistake about that.”

His tone was scarcely threatening, yet the woman seemed to understand.

”Of course,” she answered hastily. ”Tom told me that. I understand everything.”

Gordon smiled grimly. ”That's good,” he said dryly. ”In half an hour, then.”

He held the door open for her; then stepped to the window, and watched her until her figure was swallowed up in the blackness of the night.

Then, turning leisurely, he made his way up the creaking stairs and into the sick-room.

In the dim lamplight Lynch's face, as he sat propped up among the pillows, looked ghastly enough, and yet, as Gordon came forward and pulled a chair up to the bed, it at once struck him that Lynch's eyes looked naturally bright, and when he spoke, his voice, though pitched low, was hardly the voice of a man who is seriously ill.

”Glad to see you, Governor,” he said, ”and sorry to trouble you so.”

Gordon looked at him with keenest scrutiny. ”It was some trouble,” he answered, ”and I dare say I've done a foolish thing in coming here at all. And now, let's not waste any time. What's your important news?”

There was a silence. Outside the grim northeaster drove the rain, sheet upon sheet, against the rattling cas.e.m.e.nt and the flooding pane.

Within, the flickering lamplight threw strange, darting shadows across the sick man's bed. Finally Lynch raised his eyes squarely to Gordon's.

”Governor,” he said quietly, ”ever since the day I came to see you first, we've both played the game with the cards on the table. I'm going to play it that way now. I haven't any news. I only used that to get you here.”

Gordon did not start, or in any way show surprise. On the contrary, he nodded, as if in self-confirmation.

”I thought the chance was about even,” he said quietly, ”and yet I thought if it was a lie, that for you, Tom, it was a pretty clumsy one. I should be sorry to think I'd overrated you.”

Lynch forced a smile, but far back in his half-closed eyes there gleamed a little angry light, ”On the face of it,” he admitted, ”it was clumsy, and so I felt it had a better chance of pa.s.sing for truth.

I apologize, of course. I have no excuse, excepting my anxiety to see you.”

The governor leaned back a trifle farther in his chair. ”Well,” he said, ”and what's the story?”