"
"It was a cold night," continued Lin Darton, as though he had not heard
me, "and she has all she needs--while he--"
"To my mind, he had no business there!" I flared.
"He was her father."
He stared at me hard, as though he had uttered the final, indisputable
word.
"He forfeited all right to that title years ago."
"When?" demanded Mr. Darton.
"On the day of her birth," I snapped back at him.
"I do not understand you," he said coldly. And, when I remained silent,
he added: "There is no greater crime than that of a child towards a
father."
"Unless it be, perhaps, that of a father towards a child."
His sadness seemed to weigh him against the desk. I relented.
"To go against one's _own_--_against one's own_," he repeated, "and Con
so sick now--"
"You must forgive me, Mr. Darton, for my views," I said more gently,
"and tell me what I can do."
He pulled himself together at that.
"Con's all gone to pieces, you know--at the old mill house--no money--no
one to care for him. We wanted you to come out with us. Perhaps medical
care might, even now--We thought maybe," he interrupted himself hastily,
"that you could get Lisbeth to help out too--and maybe come herself--"
"Come herself!" I repeated, and my voice must have sounded the sick fear
that struck me.
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