Читать книгу: «The Forbidden Way», страница 17

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, Symonds is standing pat, but they don't know it. The new General Manager comes in to-morrow, but Symonds's orders will go through first. That train will run, Jeff – sure."

"Poor old Larry! a fine honeymoon you're having! Where's your wife?"

"At the Wetherall Ranch. Went out there last night. Her mother has been out to see her. It looks as though they might come around. It's too bad I had to go against them just now, but Mr. Janney forced my hand, and I had to. You understand, don't you, Jeff?" And, explaining as they went, Berkely followed Jeff out of the station, into a motor-car that was awaiting them.

CHAPTER XXV
THE CRISIS

One of the rooms in Janney's suite had been turned into an office for General Bent, and here it was that all the conferences between the officers of the Amalgamated Reduction Company and their underlings had taken place. The big men of Denver had all called to pay their respects to the bigger man from the East, and some of them had taken part in the business of reorganizing the Denver and California and its subsidiary companies.

But in spite of the conditions which had made Bent's control of the railroad possible and the money the crowd would make out of it, everybody in this intimate circle knew that the real object of the General's financial operations was the fight of the Amalgamated Reduction Company for the ownership of the Saguache Smelter. The reorganization of the Denver and California had now been completed, and this morning orders had gone forth removing Clinton, Symonds, and all the old crowd from the active management of the road.

General Bent sat at the end of the long desk table in conference with Curtis Janney, Cortland Bent, and a youngish-oldish, keen-eyed man in a cutaway coat and white waistcoat. This was Henry McCabe of Denver – attorney for the Amalgamated – the shrewdest lawyer west of the Missouri River, and one of the shrewdest east of it. In front of McCabe on the desk was a leather portfolio from which a number of papers protruded. Behind him sat a clerk who had been taking down in shorthand his questions and the replies of two men at the farther end of the table. These men were roughly dressed, and, though at the present moment each of them smoked one of Curtis Janney's remarkable cigars, they sat aloof and uncomfortable on their gilt chairs, assuming attitudes of ease they were far from feeling. One of the strangers was Max Reimer, the man who had discovered the lost vein in the "Lone Tree" mine. The other was Fritz Weyl, one-time barkeeper of Pete Mulrennan's saloon in Mesa City.

McCabe's examination had hardly been concluded when two cards were brought in by a page and handed to Cortland Bent. He glanced at them, and then, without comment, laid them on the table before his father.

"H – m! He's here now," muttered the General, staring grimly. "He's saved us the trouble of sending for him." He tossed the cards on the table and rose. "There's nothing more you wanted to ask, was there, McCabe?"

"No, sir, nothing. I know all I need to."

"I thought so. Will you take these men downstairs? But have them within call – I may need them. Have Harbison handy, too. Curtis, you'll stay, of course – and you, Cort." Then to the waiting servant, "Show these gentlemen up."

When Wray and Berkely entered, General Bent had resumed his chair at the head of the table, and Cortland and Curtis Janney sat on either side of him. The General's head was bent forward in its customary pose, his shaggy brows lowered so that his eyes were scarcely visible, but in the smile that twisted one end of his thin lips Berkely read a sardonic confidence in the outcome of the interview. On entering the room Wray fixed his wide gaze on General Bent, his eyes gleaming strangely, and kept it on him as though fascinated, until, at a word from Cortland Bent, he sank into a chair beside Berkely. Aside from this civility, no amenities passed. General Bent had sunk back in his armchair, coolly swinging his glasses by their cord, while he keenly eyed Berkely, who had begun talking. Curtis Janney, trying to bury his personal animosities in the present issue, folded his stout arms resolutely and leaned forward upon the table.

"We understand, General Bent, that it is you – representing Eastern interests – who have obtained a majority of the stock of the Denver and California Railroad Company. Am I correctly informed?"

General Bent's head dropped the fraction of an inch. "Your information is correct," he said shortly.

"As general counsel for the Saguache Short Line," Berkely went on, "I am here to inform you that, in accordance with a contract entered into in March of last year, the Denver and California made certain traffic arrangements with my Company conditional upon the completion of the Saguache Short Line upon a specified date. My company accepted these conditions and has succeeded in carrying out to the letter the terms of its agreements – "

"One moment, Mr. Berkely," put in the General with a vague attempt to be humorous, "if I may ask, what is the Saguache Short Line? A telegraph, stage, or railroad company?"

Wray's jaw set, and he glared angrily, but Berkely only smiled.

"A railroad company, sir," he said with suave directness, "controlling a right of way from Pueblo to Saguache – the most direct line from the Saguache to the market. Our tracks are laid, our signals in place, our stations built, and this morning we are advised that the Denver and California is running its first train through from Pueblo to Saguache!"

The three men started, and Berkely grinned.

"I may add that in addition to Mr. Clinton (who at ten o'clock this morning had not yet retired from the presidency of your road), the train also carries other officers of your company as well as stockholders of mine. A lunch has been provided at the northern terminus of the road, and a spirit of harmony dominates the occasion – one which I'm sure you'll admit is noteworthy in every particular."

General Bent's brow twitched ominously. "I hope, Mr. Berkely, you'll come to the point without delay," he said.

"Willingly. The Saguache Short Line has fulfilled its part of the contract. The present officers of your company are willing to carry out theirs. The object of our visit was merely to reassure ourselves of your friendly disposition – the friendly disposition of the newly elected officers of your road – and to arrange with all proper haste a practical schedule for the operation of the line."

Larry paused and sank back in his chair with a smile. General Bent had risen and was leaning forward over the table toward Berkely, his face a thunder-cloud.

"You want a schedule, do you?" he growled, his voice deepening. "Well, I'll give you one – I'll give it to you now, and it won't take a great while, either. As long as I'm in control of the Denver and California Railroad Company not a wheel shall turn on your little jerk-water line within a mile of Pueblo. That's my answer to your proposition. Our yard limit marks your terminus – do you understand? Get your ore there if you can find any," he finished brutally.

But Berkely refused to lose his temper.

"You're aware, of course," he said coolly, "that such a policy is likely to prove expensive?"

"You'll have to show that."

"I think we will. But I can't believe that you repudiate this contract," said Larry, tapping a paper with his forefinger.

"I didn't make that contract. I would never have made it. The courts will pass on its validity."

"Then this is final?"

"Absolutely. Is there anything more you want to say?"

"I think that's all, General Bent," said Berkely, rising. "I had hoped you would have been willing to meet us in a fair spirit. Failing to discover that – either in your attitude or your demeanor – I suppose there is nothing else to be said."

"One moment," interrupted the General, sinking back in his chair with an effort at self-control. "Sit down, please. There's something more to be said – something which you both may be interested to hear." And he addressed his remarks directly to Wray. "I can't say that I've watched your efforts to put your plans through without some interest, Mr. Wray. Under other circumstances I may say that I would have been compelled to a kind of admiration for your fruitless perseverance. It's all the more remarkable in the face of the obstacles with which you had to contend. But we are fully informed as to your actual financial strength, and I think the time has come when we may draw aside the veil and speak frankly. Mr. Berkely informs me that he intends to proceed against the Denver and California Railroad Company. To do this, of course, he must have the proper authority. Are you sure that he can get it?"

Larry smiled. "I think so."

"To do so he requires, does he not, a majority vote of the Denver and Saguache Railroad Company as well as that of the Short Line – those two companies and the Development Company, as I understand it, being in a way dependent one upon the other?"

"That is correct."

The General settled back in his chair, swinging his gold eyeglasses daintily.

"How is he going to get that authority?" he asked.

His smile infuriated Wray, who replied quickly.

"By virtue of my control of all companies," he said crisply.

"Your control?" said Bent; "you have no control. I know your resources to a dollar, Mr. Wray. To-day at twelve o'clock your Denver and Saguache Railroad Company stock will be in my possession."

Wray exchanged a glance with Berkely and laughed dryly.

"Oh, you're really coming in with us at last, are you, General?" he said. "That's fine!" And then with a chuckle, "Your name on the directorate of the Denver and Saguache ought to have some weight with the new officers of the Denver and California."

The frown on Bent's brows deepened. The point of this joke did not dawn on him.

"That stock has always been for sale," Wray went on. "Everything I have is for sale when the man comes along who can afford to buy it. It's funny, though, General Bent, that you haven't said anything to me about it."

A slight twitching of Bent's lips and the nervous movement of his fingers among the papers on the table. Was this really a joke or only the last manifestation of Wray's colossal impudence? He chose to think it the latter.

"It hasn't been necessary to say anything to you about it, sir," he said sternly. "To-day at noon two million and a half of that stock is thrown on the market at a bargain – at a very great bargain. But I'm the only man in the United States who would dare to touch it. I'm the only man in the world, except yourself, to whom it's worth a dollar. I know your resources down to the last dime. You haven't the money to take it up. I have. At noon that stock will be mine, so will you be mine – your two railroads and your smelter, at the price I choose to pay for them."

Jeff sat quietly, one of his hands toying with the top of an inkstand, which he was regarding with friendly interest.

"Are you sure, General?" he asked calmly.

General Bent clasped his twitching fingers to keep them still. "Why, sir – what do you mean?"

"That you're mistaken, that's all. That stock is for sale, but you'll still have to come to me to buy it."

"How – "

"Because I paid off those notes this morning. That stock is in my safe-deposit vault, where it's going to stay – unless" – and he smiled sarcastically – "unless you still want it."

General Bent's face paled and grew red, then purple. He struggled to his feet with difficulty. His plans didn't often miscarry, and the fact that one of the links of the chain he had tested so carefully had failed to hold completely mystified him. How – where had Jeff Wray succeeded in raising eight hundred thousand dollars when the limit of his borrowing capacity had long ago been reached? For months the wonderful secret organization of the Amalgamated had been at work prying into the affairs of Wray's companies and had figured his possible resources to the thinnest part of a hair. He had not sold the "Lone Tree" or even the smallest interest in it, and yet there he was apparently entrenched as firmly as ever. General Bent gasped in amazement. Only the interposition of Providence could have made such a thing possible. Cortland Bent had gone into the adjoining room suddenly, and Wray knew he was verifying this information over the telephone. But General Bent did not wait for him to return. To his mind this news needed no verification. It was time for him to play his last card – and his best.

"You d – d young scoundrel," he said in a hoarse whisper, his voice trembling with fury, while Wray and Berkely rose angrily and faced him. "I won't mince matters with you any longer. You thought when you stole that mine three years ago that you had covered all your tracks and made yourself safe from civil suits. Mr. Berkely planned well. We fought you in the courts and lost. I suppose you thought we had given up. We did let up, but it was only to get a firmer hold. We've got it now, and we're going to use it. You stole that mine – trespassed on our property at night and tried to murder one of our employes. You assaulted him and would have killed him if you hadn't been interrupted – "

"That's a lie!" said Jeff calmly.

"You'll have a chance to prove that. You lured Max Reimer into a gambling den and put him out of business so that he couldn't prevent my son from signing that lease."

"That's another lie! He was drunk and violent and drew a gun on me. My partner struck him down. His head hit the edge of a table."

"Nonsense, sir. We have a witness who verifies Reimer in every particular, who swears he saw from the doorway – "

"Who is your witness?"

"Fritz Weyl – I see you remember him. He – "

Wray laughed uneasily. "Yes, I remember Fritz?"

Bent came one step nearer, waving a trembling hand at Cortland, who had returned and was trying to restrain him. But the General shook him off.

"We dropped those civil suits because we thought it was wise to do so, and because we knew that in time we would be in a position to win in other ways. There are other processes of law besides the civil ones, and those are the ones we choose to take. Before you can leave Denver you'll be arrested on charges of abduction and conspiracy. I suppose you know what that means?"

Jeff grew a shade paler, his eyes blazing their resentment at the old man who stood tottering before him.

"You'd do that – you?" cried Jeff, hoarsely, struggling hard to keep himself under control. "You'd hire men to send me to the penitentiary because I've balked your plans – because I've beaten you in a fair fight against odds; —you? – you?" Wray clenched his fist and took a step forward, but Larry Berkely seized him by the arm, and Cortland Bent stepped between.

General Bent pushed his son aside.

"Go, Cort – call McCabe. We'll see – "

At this moment there was an interruption.

"Wait a moment, Cort, please," said a voice.

The door into Mr. Janney's parlor had opened suddenly, and Mrs. Cheyne had entered the room. And while the General eyed her angrily, too amazed to speak, she strode quickly forward into the group and continued quietly,

"There has been a mistake – a terrible mistake. If you'll let me explain – "

General Bent was the first to recover his senses. "Rita! Leave the room at once!" he commanded.

"No," she said firmly, "not until you hear what I have to say – "

"I can't listen now – another time," he fumed.

"No, now. I'm going to save you from doing something that you'll regret the rest of your life."

While the General questioned, Jeff had turned and seized her by the arm, his eyes pleading.

"Rita!" he muttered, "You know? … For God's sake, don't! … Not now!"

"Yes," she said firmly. "No one else will. I must."

Cornelius Bent and Cortland had watched Wray in amazement. His face had suddenly grown white and drawn.

"You have no right to tell him, Rita," he persisted. "It's my secret! – not yours! You can't! I tell you."

But she eluded him and faced the General.

"You must listen to me, Cousin Cornelius."

Curtis Janney, who had been watching Wray closely, now interposed.

"Let her speak, General. It seems to be something of more than usual importance."

"Very well," he growled, "but be brief."

"I can't tell it here," she insisted. "I must speak to you alone."

"Alone? Why?"

"It's a private matter. Will you come into the next room, there's no one there – "

She turned and was moving toward the door when Jeff's large figure blocked the way.

"You don't know what you're doing, Rita," he whispered. "You can't. I forbid it." But Berkely, who had been watching the General, took Jeff by the arm and held him by main force.

"Stand aside, sir," said General Bent, roughly brushing by. "If there's something you want concealed, it's something I want to hear." And he followed, banging the door behind him.

Jeff made a movement as though he would follow – then turned toward Cortland Bent and Janney, who had watched this extraordinary change in the demeanor of their enemy with wonder and some curiosity. Jeff stared at them wildly and took up his hat, saying in a strange voice,

"Come, Larry, I must get away from here – at once," and, opening the door, he fled madly down the corridor.

Berkely paused a moment. "We have no intention of dodging any issues," he said quietly. "If any of you gentlemen want to see Mr. Wray or me, you can find us both at the Wetherall Ranch to-morrow."

CHAPTER XXVI
THE CALL OF THE HEART

Larry caught up with Jeff outside the elevator shaft, where he found him striding up and down like a caged beast. Jeff entered the car in a daze and followed Larry blindly across the huge lobby downstairs and out of doors to a motor which was waiting for them at the curb. Larry was still bewildered at the surprising conclusion of their visit and eyed his companion sharply, but Jeff sat with folded arms, looking neither to the right nor left as they whirled through the city streets and out into the highroad. The hunted look in Jeff's eyes warned Larry not to speak, so he sat beside his partner patiently and waited.

Suddenly, without moving, Jeff's great hand shot out and clinched Larry's knee like a vise.

"He – he's my father, Larry," said Jeff hoarsely, "my father – do you understand? I didn't want him to know."

Larry put his hand over Jeff's and gripped it hard. He knew what other people in Mesa City knew of Jeff's birth, but no words occurred to him. The information had taken his breath away.

"I didn't want him to know," Jeff went on. "I wanted to wait – to tell him myself when things had broken right for us. I wanted to win – to show him I was his master – not to come crawling and licking his boots for mercy. I'll not do it now, either, by G – d. He can break me to bits, but he'll never own me – I never was his – I never will be – "

"He hasn't broken us yet, Jeff. He can't keep us out of Pueblo. We're going to win, I tell you."

"We've got to win, Larry," groaned Jeff. "We've got to win. That conspiracy charge – "

"Mere piffle," said Larry. "Don't worry. They've bought Fritz Weyl. He's not a competent witness. I can prove it."

Jeff sank back again, his gaze on the mountains. "He'd send me to Cañon City – to the penitentiary – if he could – and he's – my father."

Larry bit his lip, but didn't reply, for his mind was working rapidly. He had a perspective on the situation which had been denied to Jeff, and the vista did not seem unpleasant. He was prepared to fight for Jeff's interests and his own to the bitter end, but he was too keen a lawyer and too sound a philosopher not to know the value of compromise, and, in spite of himself, it was his legal mind which grasped the essentials of Jeff's relation to their common enemy. What would be the effect of this astonishing revelation on the mind of General Bent? He did not dare speak of this to Jeff, who in his present mood could only misinterpret him; but he was still thinking of it when the car drew up at the steps at Wetherall's big bungalow palace. Gretchen and their hostess met the arrivals at the door, and Jeff followed them in slowly. He wanted to be alone again to think – and here was sanctuary. Gretchen paused at the entrance to the morning room, and, taking Jeff by the arm, opened the door, pushed him in quickly, and closed it behind him. And while Jeff was wondering what it all meant he heard a step beside him, felt the timid touch of a hand on his sleeve, and found his eyes looking down into Camilla's.

"Jeff," she was whispering, "they told me you needed me, and so I came to you. Do you want me?"

He looked at her mistily, for the misfortunes which hung about him had dulled his perceptions. It seemed strange that she should be there, but he experienced no surprise at seeing her.

"Yes, I want you," he said absently. "Of course I want you." He fingered the hand on his sleeve and patted it gently, as he would have done a child's, but she saw with pain that the tragedy of his birth now overshadowed all other issues. If he was thinking of her at all, it was of the other Camilla – the Camilla he had known longest – the gingerbread woman that she had been. It hurt her, but she knew that it was her own fault that he could not think otherwise. She took his hand in her own warm fingers, and held it closely against her breast.

"Jeff, dear, look at me. I'm not the woman that I used to be. I'm the real Camilla, now – the Camilla you always hoped I'd be. I'm changed. Something has happened to me. I want you to understand – I'm not a graven image now, Jeff, I'm just – your wife."

He looked at her, bewildered, but in her eyes he saw that what she said was true. They were different eyes from the ones he had known – softened, darker – and looked up into his own pleadingly, wet with compassion, the tender, compelling eyes of a woman whose soul is awakened. She released his hand and threw her arms around his neck, lifting her face to his. "Don't you understand, Jeff? I want you. I want you. I've never wanted anybody else."

His arms tightened about her, and their lips met. She was tangible now – no mere image to be worshipped from afar, but a warm idol of flesh and blood, to be taken into one's heart and enshrined there.

"Camilla, girl. Is it true?"

"Yes," she whispered, "it has always been true – only I didn't know it. I love you, Jeff. I love you – oh, how I love you! Better than myself – better than all the world. Do you realize it now?"

He took her head between his hands and held it away so that he might look deep into her eyes and be sure. Their lashes dropped once or twice and hid them, but that made them only the more lovely when they opened again. For in them he read the whole measure of his happiness and hers.

"Yes, it's true. I know it now. You've never looked at me like that – never before." He bent her head forward and would have kissed her – as he sometimes used to do – on the forehead – but she would not let him.

"No, not that kiss – the cold kiss of homage, Jeff. I don't want to be venerated. You're not to kiss me like that again – ever. My lips – they're yours, Jeff – my lips … No one else – no, never … they're yours."

So he took them, and in their sweetness for a while found forgetfulness of his bitterness. At last she led him to a big chair by the window, made him sit, and sank on the floor at his feet.

"You're not going back to Kansas?" he asked anxiously.

She smiled. "Not unless you want me to."

He drew her into his arms again. "I'll never want you to. I want you here – close – close – my girl."

"You must never leave me again, Jeff – I've suffered so."

"I couldn't stand seeing you. I thought you loved – " She put her fingers over his lips and would not let him finish.

"No – not now – don't speak of that, it's all a nightmare. But you must never leave me again. I want to be with you always. I want to take my half of your troubles."

His head bowed, the grasp of his hands relaxed, and his eyes stared into vacancy.

"My troubles – yes, there are a lot of them. Perhaps you won't care for me so much when I'm down and out, Camilla. I suppose I ought to tell you. He – my father is going to have me indicted for conspiracy – about the mines. He's going to try to jail me – if he can."

She started up, terror-stricken.

"Oh, he couldn't – even he – couldn't do a thing like that."

"Oh, yes, he could," grimly. "He has bribed Reimer and Fritz Weyl. They swear I tried to murder Max."

"But you didn't, Jeff – tell me you didn't," she said tremulously. "You know you never told me what happened, and I've feared – you were desperate in those days – and lawless."

"I'm desperate and lawless yet," he muttered. "But I'd never try to kill a man just for money. We offered Max Reimer a share in the mine – a good share – but he wanted to hog it all. I told him he was a drunken fool, and he tried to shoot me. Mulrennan struck him, and knocked him out. I wouldn't be here now if he hadn't. I don't know why I never told you. I suppose I thought you wouldn't understand. I left Mulrennan trying to bring him around – and went down and bought that lease. That's all."

"Thank God," she crooned. "I've been so afraid. There have been so many stories."

"Lies – all lies – circulated by him. Now he's got Reimer to swear to them."

She threw her arms around his neck and searched his face anxiously.

"Jeff – he can't make people believe – "

"He wants to ruin me – and he'll do it if he can. There's no telling what money will do. He squeezed Conrad Seemuller and made him a bankrupt. Seemuller drank himself to death. Jimmy Ott blew out his brains. Oh, don't be afraid – I'm not going to do either – I'm not going to be crushed like a worm. If he ruins me, he'll pay dear for the privilege. I'll drag him down with me, and he'll drop farther than I will. I wanted to keep things quiet – but I won't any longer. I'll tell the world my story – his story, and let the world judge between us."

He tramped up and down the floor like a madman until Camilla interposed and led him to a divan. He followed her like a child and let her sit beside him while she questioned him as to what had happened. Jeff had looked for sanctuary, and he had found it at last. The other people in the house did not disturb them, and they sat for a long time alone, exchanging the confidences which had been so long delayed; but they were none the less sweet on that account. Late in the afternoon Camilla questioned Jeff again about the happenings of the morning. Rita Cheyne's part in the situation did not surprise her. She knew that Rita had heard everything and had decided to continue to play the game with Fate in Jeff's behalf. But she did not tell Jeff so. When he questioned her she told him what had happened at the Kinney House after he had left.

"Oh, Jeff, I don't know how I could have misjudged you so. Rita opened my eyes – why she chose to do it, I don't know. She's a strange woman – I can't quite make her out even now. She's half angel, half vixen, but I'll never forget her – never!" Camilla put her hand over Jeff's suddenly. "That money – Jeff – you must pay her back that money – if you have to sell the mine."

"I can't sell the mine – not now. It would clean me out."

"I don't care," she pleaded. "I don't want money. It has brought nothing but unhappiness to either of us. I want to begin all over again. I've learned my lesson. I look back to the old days and wonder what I could have been dreaming of. I've seen all I want of the world. Happiness belongs in the heart – no amount of money can buy it a place there. I want to be poor again – with you. Give him – give General Bent what he wants, Jeff – that will satisfy him, won't it? Please, Jeff, for my sake! Sell out the smelter and the mine – "

"Never!" Jeff's jaw set, and he rose, putting her aside almost roughly.

"I'll never give them up while I've an ounce of blood to fight!"

His tongue faltered and was silent. Camilla followed his startled gaze through the open window at an automobile, from the tonneau of which a man hurriedly descended.

"What can it mean?" Jeff was asking as though to himself. "Cort Bent! What does he want?"

"It's very curious," Camilla said slowly. "To see you – "

When Bent came into the room a moment later they were both aware of the imminence of important revelations. Camilla had not seen him for two months, and she was conscious of a slight sense of shock at his appearance. Jeff, too, noted that he was very pale and that in his eyes there hung a shadow of the misfortune that had marked them all.

At the door Cortland turned to Mrs. Berkely who had met him in the hall.

"If you don't mind, Gretchen, I'd like to speak to him alone." And, when Camilla would have gone, "No, Camilla, it concerns you, too." While they wondered what was coming he walked past Camilla and put a hand on Jeff's shoulder, the lines in his face softening gently.

"They've told me, Jeff. I know. I've come to offer you my hand." And, as Jeff still stared at him uncertainly, "You won't refuse it, will you!"

There was a nobility in the simple gesture, a depth of meaning in the quiet tones of his voice. Camilla alone knew what those few words were costing him, and she watched Jeff, who was standing as though he had been turned to stone, his head bent forward upon his breast, his deep-set eyes peering under his brows as General Bent's had often done. His eyes found Cortland's at last, searching them keenly, but he found in them only a small bright flame of fellowship among the embers of regret. Jeff's fingers twitched a little, then his hand came forward impulsively, and the two men clasped hands.

"I'm sorry, Jeff – I am – from the bottom of my heart. I want you to understand."

"I do," said Jeff, with difficulty. "I didn't want you to know – "

"I'm glad. I think it's better so."

He paused a moment before going on. "I want – I want you and Camilla to go right back with me. Can you? That's what I came to ask. Father is ill."

"Ill?" stammered Jeff.

"A stroke of apoplexy – the sudden shock of discovering all this." Jeff and Camilla started forward with one impulse of horror. "Rita and Aunt Caroline were with him, and Rita had told him the truth – the doctors are there – he has recovered consciousness, but his left side is paralyzed, completely paralyzed."