“Wyant thinks the delay might make him lose the place. It seems the board meets tomorrow. And Mrs. Ansell really knows much more about it. Isn’t she the secretary of the ladies’ committee?”
“I’m not sure—I believe so. But surely Mr. Langhope should be consulted.”
She felt Wyant’s face change: his eyes settled on her in a threatening stare.
Amherst looked at her also, and there was surprise in his glance. “I think I can answer for my father-in-law. He feels as strongly as I do how much we all owe to Dr. Wyant.”
He seldom spoke of Mr. Langhope as his father-in-law, and the chance designation seemed to mark a closer tie between them, to exclude Justine from what was after all a family affair. For a moment she felt tempted to accept the suggestion, and let the responsibility fall where it would. But it would fall on Amherst—and that was intolerable.
“I think you ought to wait,” she insisted.
An embarrassed silence settled on the three.
Wyant broke it by advancing toward Amherst. “I shall never forget your kindness,” he said; “and I hope to prove to Mrs. Amherst that it’s not misplaced.”
The words were well chosen, and well spoken; Justine saw that they produced a good effect. Amherst grasped the physician’s hand with a smile. “My dear fellow, I wish I could do more. Be sure to call on me again if you want help.”
“Oh, you’ve put me on my feet,” said Wyant gratefully.
He bowed slightly to Justine and turned to go; but as he reached the threshold she moved after him.
“Dr. Wyant—you must give back that letter.”
He stopped short with a whitening face.
She felt Amherst’s eyes on her again; and she said desperately, addressing him: “Dr. Wyant understands my reasons.”
Her husband’s glance turned abruptly to Wyant. “Do you?” he asked after a pause.
Wyant looked from one to the other. The moisture came out on his forehead, and he passed his hand over it again. “Yes,” he said in a dry voice. “Mrs. Amherst wants me farther off—out of New York.”
“Out of New York? What do you mean?”
Justine interposed hastily, before the answer could come. “It is because Dr. Wyant is not in condition—for such a place—just at present.”
“But he assures me he is quite well.”
There was another silence; and again Wyant broke in, this time with a slight laugh. “I can explain what Mrs. Amherst means; she intends to accuse me of the morphine habit. And I can explain her reason for doing so—she wants me out of the way.”
Amherst turned on the speaker; and, as she had foreseen, his look was terrible. “You haven’t explained that yet,” he said.
“Well—I can.” Wyant waited another moment. “I know too much about her,” he declared.
There was a low exclamation from Justine, and Amherst strode toward Wyant. “You infernal blackguard!” he cried.
“Oh, gently–-” Wyant muttered, flinching back from his outstretched arm.
“My wife’s wish is sufficient. Give me back that letter.”
Wyant straightened himself. “No, by God, I won’t!” he retorted furiously. “I didn’t ask you for it till you offered to help me; but I won’t let it be taken back without a word, like a thief that you’d caught with your umbrella. If your wife won’t explain I will. She’s, afraid I’ll talk about what happened at Lynbrook.”
Amherst’s arm fell to his side. “At Lynbrook?”
Behind him there was a sound of inarticulate appeal—but he took no notice.
“Yes. It’s she who used morphia—but not on herself. She gives it to other people. She gave an overdose to Mrs. Amherst.”
Amherst looked at him confusedly. “An overdose?”
“Yes—purposely, I mean. And I came into the room at the wrong time. I can prove that Mrs. Amherst died of morphia-poisoning.”
“John!” Justine gasped out, pressing between them.
Amherst gently put aside the hand with which she had caught his arm. “Wait a moment: this can’t rest here. You can’t want it to,” he said to her in an undertone.
“Why do you care…for what he says…when I don’t?” she breathed back with trembling lips.
“You can see I am not wanted here,” Wyant threw in with a sneer.
Amherst remained silent for a brief space; then he turned his eyes once more to his wife.
Justine lifted her face: it looked small and spent, like an extinguished taper.
“It’s true,” she said.
“True?”
