Jane, still entranced, saw Cleigh stoop and put his arms under the body of
his son, heave, and stand up under the dead weight. He staggered past her
toward the main salon. She heard him mutter.
"God help me if I'm too late--if I've waited too long! Denny?"
That galvanized her into action, and she flew to the light buttons,
flooding both the dining and the main salons. She helped Cleigh to place
Dennison on the lounge. After that it was her affair. Dennison was alive,
but how much alive could be told only by the hours. She bathed and
bandaged his head. Beyond that she could do nothing but watch and wait.
"I wouldn't mind--a little of that--water," said Cunningham, weakly.
Cleigh, with menacing fists, wheeled upon him; but he did not strike the
man who was basically the cause of Denny's injuries. At the same time
Jane, looking up across Dennison's body, uttered a gasp of horror. The
entire left side of Cunningham was drenched in blood, and the arm
dangled.
"Flint had a knife--and--was quite handy with it."
"For me!" she cried. "For defending me! Mr. Cleigh, Flint caught me on
deck--and Mr. Cunningham--oh, this is horrible!"
"You were right, Cleigh. The best-laid plans of mice and men! What an ass
I am! I honestly thought I could play a game like this without hurt to
anybody. It was to be a whale of a joke. Flint----"
Cunningham reached blindly for the nearest chair and collapsed in it.
* * * * *
An hour later. The four of them were still in the main salon. Jane sat at
the head of the lounge, and from time to time she took Dennison's pulse
and temperature. She had finally deduced that there had been no serious
concussion. Cleigh sat at the foot of the lounge, his head on his hands.
Cunningham occupied the chair into which he had collapsed. Three ugly
flesh wounds, but nothing a little time would not heal. True, he had had a
narrow squeak. He sat with his eyes closed.
"Why?" asked Jane suddenly, breaking the silence.
"What?" said Cleigh, looking up.
"Why these seven years--if you cared? I heard you say something about
being too late. Why?"
"I'm a queer old fool. An idea, when it enters my head, sticks. I can't
shift my plans easily; I have to go through. What you have witnessed these
several days gives you the impression that I have no heart. That isn't
true. But we Cleighs are pigheaded. Until he was sent to Russia he was
never from under the shadow of my hand. My agents kept me informed of all
his moves, his adventures. The mistake was originally mine. I put him in
charge of an old scholar who taught him art, music, languages, but little
or nothing about human beings. I gave him a liberal allowance; but he was
a queer lad, and Broadway never heard of him. Now I hold that youth must
have its fling in some manner or other; after thirty there is no cure for
folly. So when he ran away I let him go; but he never got so far away that
I did not know what he was doing. I liked the way he rejected the cash I
gave him; the way he scorned to trade upon the name. He went clean. Why? I
don't know. Oh, yes, he got hilariously drunk once in a while, but he had
his fling in clean places. I had agents watching him."