The expression was swiftly transient. It baffled him, filling him with
an impotent rage. But he watched her narrowly as she folded her hands
in her lap and looked down at them.
"Your father expected you to come," she said quietly. "He prayed that
you might return before he died. It seems that he felt he had treated
you meanly and he wanted to tell you that he had repented."
A cynical wonder filled Calumet, and he laughed--a short, raucous
staccato.
"How do you know?" he questioned.
"He told me."
Calumet considered her for a moment in silence and then his attention
was directed to her grandfather, who had got to his feet and was
walking unsteadily toward the dining-room door. He was a
well-preserved man, appearing to be about sixty. That Calumet's attack
had been a vicious one was apparent, for as the man reached the door he
staggered and leaned weakly against the jambs. He made a grimace at
Calumet and smiled weakly at the girl.
"I'm pretty well knocked out, Betty," he said. "My neck hurts, sorta.
I'll send Bob in to keep you company."
The girl cast a sharp, eloquent glance at Calumet and smiled with
straight lips.
"Don't bother to send Bob," she replied; "I am not afraid."
The grandfather went out, leaving the door open. While the girl stood
listening to his retreating steps, Calumet considered her.
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