a servant had built. Against the windows, the wind bumped and the rain spattered. Sean was drinking whisky, and Mark had filled his glass twice for him in the last hour.
He was slumped down in his favourite chair now, tired and old and bowed with grief, holding the glass with both hands. If I had the courage, I would take the rifle to him myself - like a rabid dog. But he is still my son, no matter how often I deny it, he is still of my blood, of my loins.
Mark was silent, and Ruth came into the room.
Doctor Acheson is setting that man's arm, she said. He will be another hour, but I think you should come up to bed now, my dear. She crossed to Sean's chair and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. We have all had more than enough for one day. The telephone rang on the desk, a tinny irritant sound that startled them all. They stared at it for a full five seconds, until it rang again demandingly and Ruth crossed to it and lifted the earpiece.
Mrs. Ruth Courtney, she said softly, almost fearfully. Mrs. Courtney, are you the mother of Mrs, Storm Hunt? Yes, this is correct. I am afraid we have very bad news. This is the Superintendent of Addington Hospital in Durban. Your daughter has been involved in a motor accident. The rain and the mud, I am afraid. Her son, your grandchild, has been killed outright. Thankfully he suffered no pain, but your daughter is in a critical condition. Can you come to her, as soon as you possibly can? We don't know if she will last the night, I'm afraid. The telephone dropped from Ruth's hand, and she swayed on her feet, the colour flying from her face, leaving it frosted with icy white. Oh God! she whispered, and she started to fall, her legs collapsed and she crumpled forward. Mark caught her before she hit the floor and lowered her on to the sofa.
Sean crossed to the dangling earpiece and lifted it. This is General Courtney, he barked angrily. What is it? Mark took the big Rolls down the long slanting right hand turn towards the bridge very fast. The woman he loved, the mother of his dead child, was dying, and Mark's heart was breaking. The road was deep with chocolate mud, and other vehicles had rutted it deeply, churning the mud to a thick ugly porridge. The Rolls flared and kicked in the ruts, but Mark fought the wheel grimly.
The bridge over the Baboon Stroom was five hundred yards ahead of them, still invisible in the endless driving rain. The headlights faded fifty feet ahead, overwhelmed by the flights of white raindrops, thick as javelins.
In the rear seat, Ruth Courtney sat quietly, staring ahead with eyes that did not see. The collar of her fur coat was pulled up around her ears, so she looked small and frail as a child.
General Sean Courtney sat beside Mark, and he was talking quietly, as though to himself. I've left it too late. I've been a stubborn old fool. I wanted too much from her, I wanted her to be better than human, and I was too harsh on her when she did not meet the standards I set for her. I should have gone to her long ago, and now perhaps it's too late. It's not too late, Mark denied. She will live, she must live. It's too late for my grandson, whispered Sean. I never saw him, and only now I realize how much I wanted to -At the mention of baby John, Mark felt the sickening jolt of despair in his stomach again and he wanted to shout, He was my son. My first born! But beside him, Sean was talking again. I've been a spiteful and unforgiving old man. God have mercy on me, but I even cut my own daughter out of my will. I disowned her, and now I hate myself for that. If only we can reach her, if only I can talk to her once more. Please, God, grant me that. Ahead of them the steel guard railings of the bridge loomed out of the torrential darkness, and lightning bounced off the belly of the clouds. For an instant Mark saw the spidery steel tracery of the railway bridge spanning the chasm two hundred yards downstream. Under it, the rocky sides of the gorge dropped almost sheer a hundred and firty feet to the swollen racing brown flood waters of the Baboon Stroom.
Mark touched the brakes, and then double-declutched the gears, bringing the Rolls under tighter control as he lined up for the entrance to the road bridge.
Suddenly, dazzling light flared from the darkness on the right hand side of the road, and Mark threw up one hand to protect his eyes.
Out of the darkness rushed a great dark shape, with two blazing headlights glaring like malevolent eyes as it came.
With sudden clarity of mind, Mark realized that the Rolls was trapped helplessly on the approach ramp to the bridge, and that on his left hand, only a frail railing of iron pipes screened them from the drop and that the monstrous vehicle racing down from the right would come into a collision which would hurl the Rolls through the railing as though it were a child's toy. Hold on! he screamed, and swung the wheel to meet the roaring towering monster of steel, and the blinding white light cut into his eyes.
Peter Botes pulled off the road into the pine trees and switched off the engine of the Packard. In the silence he could hear the pine branches thrashing restlessly on the wind, and the dislodged rain-drops tapped on the roof.
Peter lit a cigarette and the match danced in his cupped hands. He inhaled deeply, waiting for the calming effect of the tobacco smoke, and he stared ahead up the straight roadway that led to Great Longwood, the homestead of Dirk Courtney.
He sensed that the decision he must make now was the most vital of his entire life. Whichever way he decided, his life was already changed for ever.
When Dirk Courtney fell, he would bring down all those close to him, even the innocent, as he was innocent. The scandal and the guilt would sully him, and he had worked so hard for it. The prestige, the blooming career and all the sweets that he was just now starting to enjoy. All of it would be gone, and he would have to begin again, perhaps in another town, another land, to begin again right at the very bottom. The thought appalled him, he had become used to being a man of substance and importance. He did not know if he could face a new beginning.
On the other hand, if Dirk Courtney did not come down, if he were saved from death and disaster -just how grateful would he be to the man who worked his salvation? He knew the extent of Dirk Courtney's present fortune and power, and it was conceivable that some of that, perhaps a large slice of that might come to him, to Peter Botes, the man who had saved Dirk Courtney and yet still retained the instrument of his destruction.
it was one of those moments of destiny, Peter realized, that come only occasionally to a chosen few. On one hand dishonour and obscurity, on the other, power and riches, tens of thousands, perhaps even millions.
He started the engine of the Packard and the rear wheels spun in the slimy mud, and then he swerved back on to the driveway, and put the big machine to the hill.
Dirk Courtney sat on the corner of his desk, one foot swinging idly. He wore a dressing-gown of patterned silk, and the lustrous material caught the lamplight as he moved. There was a white silk scarf at his throat, and his eyes were clear and alert in the handsome tanned face, as though he had not just risen from deep sleep.
He spun the duelling pistol on his forefinger as he listened intently.
Peter Botes sat nervously on the edge of the chair, and though there was a fire in the grate that Dirk had poked