"Sit down," he said. "Smoke, Allan?"
"No, thanks." Baird looked doubly tall and lean, his face had a gaunt
appearance; and as he sat down, his lithe supple right hand slowly closed
on the arm of his chair.
"Now then," began Roger, "there are two things we want to get clear on. The
first is about yourself and Deborah. There has been trouble, hasn't there?"
"Yes."
"She has made up her mind not to marry you."
"Yes."
"I guessed as much." And Roger paused. "Do you mind my asking questions?
"No--"
"Are you still in love with her, Allan?"
"I am."
"And she with you?"
"I think so."
"Then it's the same old trouble."
"Yes." And he told a part of what she had said. As he talked in clear,
terse, even tones, Baird's steady eyes had a tortured light, the look of a
man who has almost reached the end of his endurance. Roger smoked in
silence.
"What do you propose to do?"
"Wait," said Allan, "a few days more. Then try again. If I fail I'm
through." Roger shot a quick look at him.
"I don't think you'll fail, my boy--and what's more I think I can help you.
This is a large house, Allan--there's more in it than you know. My second
point concerns myself. I'm going to die within a year."
As Baird turned on him suddenly, Roger grimly smiled and said, "We won't go
into the details, but I've been examined lately and I have quite positive
knowledge of what I've suspected for some time.
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