Cardigan. We have just passed through a most
extraordinary day, and if at evening I can feel as I do now, I think
you ought to do your share--and help."
"Bless your heart," he murmured. "The very fact that you bothered to
ring me up at all makes me your debtor. Shirley, can you stand some
plain speaking--between friends, I mean?"
"I think so, Mr. Cardigan."
"Well, then," said Bryce, "listen to this: I am your uncle's enemy
until death do us part. Neither he nor I expect to ask or to give
quarter, and I'm going to smash him if I can."
"If you do, you smash me," she warned him.
"Likewise our friendship. I'm sorry, but it's got to be done if I can
do it. Shall--shall we say good-bye, Shirley?"
"Yes-s-s!" There was a break in her voice. "Good-bye, Mr Cardigan. I
wanted you to know."
"Good-bye! Well, that's cutting the mustard," he murmured sotto voce,
"and there goes another bright day-dream." Unknown to himself, he
spoke directly into the transmitter, and Shirley, clinging half
hopefully to the receiver at the other end of the wire, heard him--
caught every inflection of the words, commonplace enough, but
freighted with the pathos of Bryce's first real tragedy.
"Oh, Bryce!" she cried sharply. But he did not hear her; he had hung
up his receiver now.
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