Wolf in Man's Clothing by Mignon G. Eberhart Page A

quickly. I rather felt that he was fortifying himself against the coming interview, which bore out my curious, but thus far unsubstantiated, impression of him.
    The library was a warm room, with rich panels which alternated with bookshelves that went to the high ceiling. There were several great, high-backed chairs, upholstered in needlepoint, a long, rather shabby red leather divan, and a rug that, Peter Huber told me later, had been willed to a museum and yet was put down for people to walk upon, which seemed to upset Peter but which struck me as perfectly logical, in that, after all, it was a rug. But he said it ought to have hung on the wall.
    Then Drue came. Beevens muttered and closed the door behind her so she was silhouetted sharply against its dark wood, white and slim with her chin held high. Her face was white, too, and her gray eyes quite bright and dark. Conrad Brent put down the glass he still held.
    â€œWhy did you come here?” he said heavily.
    Drue took a sharp breath. “I was sent here as a nurse.”
    Conrad Brent frowned. “No. I’ll tell you why you came. You came because it was my son. You wanted to see him. Well, he does not want to see you. That ought to be clear by now.”
    Drue’s face went, if anything, whiter. She said. “I came here to nurse him. He’s sick and he needs me. …”
    â€œNot you,” cut in Conrad Brent. “Anybody but you. I tell you he doesn’t want you.”
    Drue hesitated. Then she lifted her little chin higher. “I don’t believe that,” she said.
    Conrad Brent with a sharp and yet small and controlled gesture of anger lifted the decanter and set it hard and abruptly down again. He said, “Look here, Miss Cable.”
    Drue interrupted and said quietly, “Mrs. Brent.”
    â€œMrs. …”
    â€œI did not actually resume my maiden name. I am legally Mrs. Brent.”
    A small purplish flush crept up into Conrad Brent’s cheeks. “But you are not my son’s wife,” he said, biting off the words. “And I must tell you, painful though it is to me, that my son doesn’t want you. He asked me to arrange the break with you. I didn’t want to tell you that at the time. I didn’t want to hurt you needlessly; I am a kind man. And Craig wanted to spare you as much as possible. He thought it was kinder to break off his marriage to you as it was done. Gradually. And in a way that saved your pride and feelings. I’m sorry to have to say this. Nothing but your defiant and suspicious attitude would have induced me to say it. But you must understand that Craig doesn’t want you to be his wife and didn’t. He realized that his marriage was ill-considered and too hasty.”
    All this time Drue was standing, outlined sharply in her crisp white uniform, against the door. Her face was almost as white as her uniform, but her eyes didn’t flinch.
    Conrad Brent touched the decanter again, absently, and said, “As I say, I’m sorry. But you must have known the truth when he didn’t come back to you after he finished his training.”
    Drue took a step forward at that. She said, “He did finish then?”
    A queer, a completely indecipherable expression flitted across Conrad Brent’s face; it was something curiously secretive and yet shrinkingly secretive, somehow; as if he didn’t want to think of whatever it was that was in his mind. He said, however, stiffly, “Yes. He leaves soon. I don’t know his destination.”
    â€œWhy is he at home?” said Drue.
    â€œI don’t really know that you have a right to ask,” said Conrad Brent. “However—” he lifted his shoulders and replied briefly—“he is home on leave. Now, of course, his leave will have to be extended. As I say, I don’t know where he is to be sent. He doesn’t know. He is”—again that queerly shrinking and secretive look came