her imagination. Perhaps a mental breakdown was responsible for this
alteration. She was tempted to ring for Jenkins, the butler, to share
her vigil; or for one of the two women servants, now far at the back of
the house.

"And Bobby," she said to herself, "or somebody will have to come out here
to-morrow to help."

But Silas Blackburn shuffled in just then, and she was a trifle ashamed
as she studied him standing with his back to the fire, glaring around the
room, fumbling with hands that shook in his pocket for his pipe and some
loose tobacco. It was unjust to be afraid of him. There was no question.
The man himself was afraid--terribly afraid.

His fingers trembled so much that he had difficulty lighting his pipe.
His heavy brows, gray like his beard, contracted in a frown. His voice
quavered unexpectedly. He spoke of his grandson:

"Bobby! Damned waster! God knows what he'll do next."

"He's young, Uncle Silas, and too popular."

He brushed aside her customary defence. As he continued speaking she
noticed that always his voice shook as his fingers shook, as his stooped
shoulders jerked spasmodically.

"I ordered Mr. Robert here to-night. Not a word from him. I'd made up my
mind anyway. My lawyer's coming in the morning. My money goes to the
Bedford Foundation--all except a little annuity for you, Katy. It's hard
on you, but I've got no faith left in my flesh and blood."