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You will do this for your poor old granddaddy who has loved you well and who suffers to-day as no man in all this world has ever suffered before. I am in agony. Nothing stops the pain. Everything has failed. You will do this for me, Braden?" The young man raised his haggard face. Infinite pity had succeeded horror in his eyes. Simmy Dodge emerged from Sherry's at nine-thirty. He was leaving Mrs.
Bryce heard of this tribute to John Braden next day from Mrs. Folliot, Sackville Bonham's mother, a large lady who dominated certain circles of Wrychester society in several senses. Mrs. Folliot was one of those women who have been gifted by nature with capacity she was conspicuous in many ways.
It will wait,—rather impatiently, I fear,—for the chance to say, 'I told you so. Of course, you are sensible enough to have thought of all this, still I don't see why I shouldn't speak of it to you." "Has it occurred to you that our friends may be justified in thinking that I did call upon you to take this case, Braden?" she asked quietly. He frowned. "I daresay that is true.
"Near-sighted, be you?" he inquired, a remark so unexpected that for the moment Mrs. Pomfret was deprived of speech. "I manage to see better with with these," she gasped, "when we get old you know." "You hain't old," said Mr. Braden, gallantly. "If you be," he added, his eye travelling up and down the Parisian curves, "I wouldn't have suspected it not a mite."
Even to this day, to this very moment, I continue to count on you. I shall never be able to put the hope out of my mind. I have tried it and failed. You may despise me if you will, but nothing can kill this mean little thing that lurks in here. I don't know what you will call it, Braden, but I call it loyalty to you." "Loyalty! My God!" he cried out hoarsely. "Yes, loyalty," she cried.
"Percy Wintermill!" gasped Braden, clutching the arms of his chair. "Why, she has always looked upon him as the stupidest, ugliest man in town. His attentions have been a standing joke between us. He is crazy about her, I know, but—oh, well, go on with the story." "To be sure he is crazy about her, as you say. That isn't strange.
"In consequence of finding the book about Barthorpe in the suit-case," said Mitchington, "we sent a long telegram yesterday to the police there, telling them what had happened, and asking them to make the most careful inquiries at once about any townsman of theirs of the name of John Braden, and to wire us the result of such inquiries this morning. This is their reply, received by us an hour ago.
Better, eh? I am dying by inches,—fractions of inches, to be precise." He stopped short, out of breath after this long speech. Braden laid his hand upon the bony fore-arm. "How long have you known, granddaddy, that you had this—this—" "Cancer? Say it, my boy. I'm not afraid of the word. Most people are. It's a dreadful word. How can I answer your question? Years, no doubt.
Braden, drawing a little closer and waving aside the manuscript with his cigar. "Don't understand what?" "Don't seem to understand," repeated Mr. Braden, confidingly laying his hand on Mr. Crewe's knee. "Candidate for representative, be you?" "Yes," replied Mr. Crewe, who was beginning to resent the manner in which he deemed he was being played with, "I told you I was."
"Near-sighted, be you?" he inquired, a remark so unexpected that for the moment Mrs. Pomfret was deprived of speech. "I manage to see better with with these," she gasped, "when we get old you know." "You hain't old," said Mr. Braden, gallantly. "If you be," he added, his eye travelling up and down the Parisian curves, I wouldn't have suspected it not a mite."
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