I found him sitting amid an untidy litter of papers at
the table, talking through the telephone to some one who later
developed to be Miss Etta; and I had at once a feeling of suffocation
and closeness, due not alone, I believe, to the barred windows and the
steaming radiator. The family resemblance that Mr. Lin Darton bore to
Old Con threw into relief the former's honesty, and made more bearable
his heavy sentimentalism, upon which Con had played as surely as on a
bagpipe, sounding its narrow range with insistent evenness of response.
"I want to talk to you about Con," he said gravely, as soon as the
receiver had been hung up, "and--Lisbeth." He uttered his niece's name
as though it were a thing of which he could not but be ashamed.
I said nothing to this, and waited.
"As you are still in touch with her; and, as the situation is probably
already partly known to you, I thought you might be able--willing--" He
hesitated, paused; and a grieved look came into his eyes that was quite
genuine. I realized the fact coldly.
"Whatever I can do," I assured him, "I shall be glad to."
"None of us," he continued, "have seen Lisbeth since that terrible night
four years ago, when she turned Con away from her house."
I hesitated for a moment and then said: "It was three o'clock in the
morning, if I remember, and he had written that he was coming to take
her little son into the country, to give him a chance," I added
bitingly, "of some real country air.
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