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

into his face—“he is to be a bomber pilot.”
    â€œBomber …” said Drue in a kind of numb and expressionless voice.
    â€œYes,” said Conrad Brent. There was a strange little silence in which, I thought, for the first time probably Conrad Brent shared an emotion with the girl he hated. He seemed then to realize it, for he drew himself up, gave her a hooded, hating look and said, “That is not the point. The point is you are no longer his wife. And he doesn’t want to see you.” He waited, and Drue didn’t move, and he said suddenly in a kind of burst, “Do you doubt my word?”
    Drue said quietly and simply, her eyes straight and unwavering, “Yes.”
    Conrad Brent turned so purple and swelled so visibly that I gave a preparatory glance at the decanter of brandy and the sofa; but nothing happened in the way of a seizure, and Drue added simply, “You see, Craig loved me.”
    â€œThat was a boyish infatuation!” said Conrad Brent, with a kind of controlled violence. “He was soon cured. Your marriage to my son is past and ended completely. I only wanted to make sure you understood that before permitting you to stay on in this house. I see you prefer not to, so you can leave at once …” He turned to the bell and had his hand outstretched when I said, “She’d better stay.”
    His head jerked toward me, startled. I said, “All this is beside the point. The only thing that matters just now is whether your son is going to live or die.” I said it quite coolly and looked at the fat and frolicsome animal above the mantel in a detached fashion.
    There was a little silence while he digested that. Then he turned to Drue again. “You might be needed tonight. But, understand, I’ll have no attempts to talk to my son. If you stay at all you stay on my terms.”
    Well, it was clear enough; shut up or out you go. After a moment, Drue said, whispering, “I’ll stay. I’ve got to stay. …”
    â€œVery well,” said Conrad Brent. “You take the noon train tomorrow. That’s all.”
    She waited an instant or two, looking at him; then she went to the door. But with her hand on the doorknob she turned to him again. Her clear gray eyes had a thoughtful, queerly measuring look. She said very quietly, “You are his father. I suppose you love him. But I could kill you for what you’ve done to me.” With which remarkably quiet and unexpected remark she walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.
    Well, I must say I was a little disconcerted. I turned to Conrad Brent and he had got out a handkerchief and was touching his bluish lips with it. “Look here,” I said abruptly. “I know that girl. She’d make anybody a good wife.”
    â€œAnd a charming daughter-in-law,” said Conrad Brent, “threatening to murder me.”
    â€œShe didn’t mean that; you know it. She …”
    He interrupted me. “My dear Nurse. I have no doubt she would make an admirable wife for, as you aptly put it, anybody. But not”—he drew himself up and glanced up at the coat of arms and said in a different voice—“but not for my son. That’s all, Nurse.” Without giving me another chance to speak he went to the door and opened it for me, and I was obliged to precede him into the hall.
    The aspect of the great, solemn hall had changed. A fire had been lighted and there was a little group of people having tea there, with chairs and tables drawn up near the fire and Beevens hovering in the background. Alexia, sitting behind a lace-draped table, was pouring from an old silver service that was polished till it looked as soft as satin.
    Conrad Brent asked me to have tea with them. The fact itself astonished me so I looked at him incredulously. But it was as if the opening of the library door had been the rising of a curtain and Conrad Brent had a scene