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To let it go unanswered is a confession of its truth." "My invariable answer to such words," said Stuart Farquaharson slowly, "is made with a clenched fist. The triple immunity of your cloth, your age and your infirmity denies me even that reply." "And what immunity makes a denial unnecessary?"
So long as the old man's precarious life spark had been a danger signal, burning against the influence of Stuart Farquaharson, it was vital that he should live. Now he was entitled to the serenity of a holy man's reward. It was near to sunset when the husband left the room and the eyes of Conscience kindled for the first time out of their lethargic quiet.
Thought processes that are moral cramps and mental dyspepsia threaten to ruin your entire life." "Don't, dear please!" She leaned toward him and spoke earnestly. "I know it's hard to endure without retort, but please don't make me listen to things like that about Father. It's bad enough without any more recriminations." Then logic retreated from Stuart Farquaharson.
The entire world was a wonderful place! A street fakir thrust a tray of scarabs up from the sidewalk and grinned. Farquaharson grinned back and tossed him backsheesh. Then he opened his missive. A young British army officer looked on idly from the next table, amused at the boyish enthusiasm of the American.
Eben Tollman smiled. His manner was frankly gracious, while it escaped effusiveness. "Well, now, Mr. Farquaharson," he suggested, "I can't say as to that, but why don't you come and investigate for yourself? You can leave by the noon train to-morrow and be with us in a little over two hours I wish we could wait and see your play this evening, but I'm afraid I must get back to-day."
"I won't change mine," he said staunchly. "And I won't let you change yours. You will write to me, won't you?" he eagerly demanded, but she shook her head. "Father doesn't let me write to boys," she told him. "At least you'll be back next summer?" "I'm afraid not. I don't know." Stuart Farquaharson drew a long breath. His face set itself in rigid resolve.
"Can the reminiscence stuff," interrupted the head of the Searchlight Investigation Bureau. "The point is that it's just about the deal we're being hired to put over on this Farquaharson person. He wants to marry a girl and we've got to frame him up with a dirty past or present. Our respected employer is a deacon and a pious hypocrite. He wants results and he wants us to go the limit to get 'em.
"Yes, quite old," she responded with a smile. Tollman nodded understandingly. A short while before he had been reading his Providence newspaper and a brief paragraph, which would otherwise have escaped his eye, had caught his attention like the red lantern at a railroad crossing because it contained the name of Stuart Farquaharson.
I'm all right," he declared. "I've been in the desert, you see, and " But the Englishman had nodded and gone back to his table. Ten minutes later, scornful of over-sea tolls, Farquaharson was filing a cablegram. The letter had said she would be married "some time in the winter." It was now past mid-winter. Would there be time?
"His courage has been strong enough to concede to my wish that I might tell you myself, and in my own time." The library door stood open and the hall gave out onto the verandah where Stuart Farquaharson sat waiting for Conscience to return. The minister attempted to rise from his chair and fell back into it, with a groan, as he remembered his helplessness.
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