quickly around from the window; and now both his and Lee's eyes were fixed sharply, critically on Varge—the next instant, like Varge's, they were strained on the doorway.
It was Mrs. Merton.
She stood there, a frail, pathetic figure in black, the sweet, patient face worn and haggard with grief—and, swaying a little, caught at the door jamb for support. Then steadying herself with an effort, she stepped into the room and shut the door.
"Good God!" Marston muttered in dismay under his breath, and mopped helplessly at his forehead with his hand.
She moved slowly toward Varge. Lee stepped forward as though to interpose, but she waved him away.
"I was in the other room with him," she said dully, "and I saw you drive up. It seemed almost an answer to prayer. I have asked on my knees through the night that it might not be so, that this at least might be some horrible mistake—and I have not believed it and I will never believe it unless I hear it from your own lips"—she had stopped before Varge, and was talking to Varge, to Varge alone, with a strange concentration that seemed to make her oblivious of all else, of the others, of her surroundings even—"why, you are just like another son, Varge, and, of course, I couldn't believe it any more than I could believe it of Harold. Why, I've brought you up and taken care of you and loved you ever since you were a little boy. Don't you remember, Varge, I taught you your letters? Of course, it isn't true. It's like an answer to prayer and
