believe the story of Kirk's baseness which her aunt poured into her ear
during the first miles of the journey. It was absurd and incredible.
Yet, as they raced along the dark roads, doubt came to her and would
not be driven out.
A single unfortunate phrase of Kirk's, spoken in haste, but remembered
at leisure, formed the basis of this uncertainty. That afternoon when
he had left her he had said that Mamie was the real mother of the
child. Could it be that Mamie's undeviating devotion to the boy had won
the love which she had lost? It was possible. Considered in the light
of what Mrs. Porter had told her, it seemed, in her blackest moments,
certain.
She knew how wrapped up in the boy Kirk had been. Was it not a logical
outcome of his estrangement from herself that he should have turned for
consolation to the one person in sympathy with him in his great love
for his child?
She tried to read his face as he stood looking at her now, but she
could find no hope in it. The eyes that met hers were cold and
expressionless.
Mrs. Porter rapped the table a second time.
'Mr. Winfield,' she said in the metallic voice with which she was wont
to cow publishers insufficiently equipped with dash and enterprise in
the matter of advertising treatises on the future of the race, 'I have
no doubt you are surprised to see us. You appear to be looking your
wife in the face. It speaks well for your courage but badly for your
sense of shame. If you had the remnants of decent feeling in you, you
would be physically incapable of the feat. If you would care to know
how your conduct strikes an unprejudiced spectator, I may tell you that
I consider you a scoundrel of the worst type and unfit to associate
with any but the low company in which I find you.'
Steve, who had been listening with interest, and indeed, a certain
relish while Kirk was, as he put it to himself, 'getting his' in this
spirited fashion, started at the concluding words of the address,
which, in his opinion, seemed slightly personal. He had long ago made
up his mind that Lora Delane Porter, though an entertaining woman and,
on the whole, more worth while than a moving-picture show, was quite
mad; but, he felt, even lunatics ought to realize that there is a limit
to what they may say.
He moaned protestingly, and rashly, for he drew the speaker's attention
upon himself.
'This person,' went on Mrs. Porter, indicating Steve with a wave of her
hand which caused him to sidestep swiftly and throw up an arm, as had
been his habit in the ring when Battling Dick or Fighting Jack
endeavoured to blot him out with a right swing, 'who, I observe,
retains the tattered relics of a conscience, seeing that he winces, you
employed to do the only dangerous part of your dirty work. I hope he
will see that he gets his money. In his place I should be feeling
uneasy.'
'Ma'am!' protested Steve.
Mrs. Porter silenced him with a gesture.
'Be quiet!' she said.
