Derry's head was buried deep in the cushion. His hands clutched the
letter which had cut the knot of his desperate decision.
No--one could not break a promise to a mother in Heaven. . . .
He waked heavily in the morning. Bronson was beside his bed. "I am
sorry to disturb you, sir, but Dr. McKenzie would like to speak to you."
"McKenzie?"
"Yes, sir. I had to call him last night. Your father was worse."
"Bring him right in here, Bronson, and have some coffee for us."
When Dr. McKenzie was ushered into Derry's sitting room, he found a
rather pale and languid young man in the long chair.
"I hated to wake you, Drake. But it was rather necessary that I should
talk your father's case over with you."
"Is he very ill?"
"It isn't that--there are complications that I don't care to discuss
with servants."
"You mean he has been drinking?"
"Yes. Heavily. You realize that's a rather serious thing for a man of
his age."
"I know it. But there's nothing to be done."
"What makes you say that?"
"We've tried specialists--cures. I've been half around the world with
him."
The Doctor nodded.
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