Like a man in a dream, Frank Lamotte obeys his father’s call, never once thinking that the summons is strangely worded. Over and over in his mind the question is repeating itself—What did she mean? Was he going mad? Was he dreaming? Had Constance Wardour really said a word that rendered himself and all that household unsafe? If she knew who should stand in Clifford Heath’s stead, would she really spare the culprit? No; it was impossible. Was her talk bravado? was she seeking to deceive him?
“Impossible,” he reasons. “If she knew who struck that blow, then I am ruined utterly. But she does not know—she can not.”
Jasper Lamotte leads the way to the library. It seems natural that he should move softly, cautiously. A supernatural stillness pervades the lower floor. Frank Lamotte shudders and
