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She remembered the morning when the postman came up the garden path with the official letter that her husband had been slain. And at last in a whisper she said: "The Road?" Dick, even in the presence of her pain, could not deny the implication of her words. "We Linforths belong to the Road," he answered gravely. The words struck upon a chord of memory.
We Linforths belong to the Road." Dick folded the letter reverently, and crossing to his mother's side, put his arm about her waist. "Yes," he said. "My father knew it as I know it. He used the words which I in my turn have used. We Linforths belong to the Road." His mother took the letter from his hand and locked it away. "Yes," she said bravely, and called a smile to her face. "So you must go."
If he wants to, let him! We Linforths belong to the road," and for the third time the phrase recurred, "I am very tired," and upon the phrase the letter broke off. Dewes could imagine Linforth falling forward with his head upon his hands, his eyes heavy with sleep, while from without the tent the patient Chiltis watched until he slept. "How did it happen?" he asked.
He was a Linforth, one of the Linforths of the Road. Great was his pride. He would not have bartered his position to be a General in command of a division. Ralston had sent for him because of his hereditary title to work upon the Road, the broad, permanent, graded Road which was to make India safe.
Dick leaned his arms upon the sill and with his eyes on the Colonel's face asked quietly: "How far does the Road reach now?" At the side of Colonel Dewes Sybil Linforth flinched as though she had been struck. But it did not need that movement to explain to the Colonel the perplexing problem of her fears. He understood now. The Linforths belonged to the Road. The Road had slain her husband.
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