I am going to fight. I am not your son, sir. I am
the son of my mother."
Then the General said what he would never have said if he had been
himself.
"If you are not my son, then, by God, you shan't have any of my money."
"I don't want it. Do you think that I do? I shall get out of here
tonight, and I shan't come back. There is only one thing that I want
besides my own personal traps--and that is my mother's picture on the
stairs."
The General was drawing labored breaths. "Your mother's picture--?"
"Yes, it has no place here. Do you think for as instant that you can
meet her eyes?"
There was a look of fright on the drawn old face. "I am not well, give
me the wine."
Derry reached for the bottle. "He shall not have it."
Hilda came up to him swiftly. "Can't you see? He must. Look at him."
Derry looked and surrendered. Then covered his face with his hands.
* * * * * *
All that night, Derry, trying to pack, with Bronson in agitated
attendance, was conscious of the sinister presence of Hilda in the
house. There was the opening and shutting of doors, her low orders in
the halls, her careful voice at the telephone, and once the sound of
her padded steps as she passed Derry's room on her way to her own.
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