Carl flung his cigar into the fire, poured himself some whiskey and
pushed the decanter across the table.

"Have a drink," he said whimsically.

Dick obeyed. It was an inconsistent supplement to the sermon but
characteristic.

"Carl," he said, flushing under the ironical battery of the other's
eyes, "I don't think I understand you--"

Carl laughed.

"Nobody does," he said. "I don't myself."




CHAPTER III

A WHIM

The fire in the marble fireplace died down, leaping in fitful shadow
over the iron-bound doors riveted in nail-heads. They too were relics
from the Spanish castle which Norman Westfall had stripped of its
ancient appurtenances to fashion an appropriate setting for the
beautiful young Spanish wife whose death at the birth of Diane had
goaded him to suicide. That Norman Westfall had regarded the vital
spark within him as an indifferent thing to be snuffed out at the will