“Where did you say my father was, Alec?” he asked in a listless voice.

“In his li’l’ room, son; dey’s all in dar, Marse George Temple, Mister Gilbert—­dem two gemmans who stood up wid Mister Willits—­dey’s all dar.  Don’t mind what dey say, honey—­jes’ you fall back on ol’ Alec.  I dassent go in; maybe I’ll be yere in de pantry so ye kin git hold o’ me.  I’se mos’ crazy, Marse Harry—­let me git hold oh yo’ hand once mo’, son.  Oh, my Gawd!—­dey sha’n’t do nothin’ to ye!”

The boy took the old man’s hand in his, patted it gently and resumed his walk.  The least said the better when Alec felt like this.  It was Kate’s voice that pierced his ears—­Kate’s sobs that wrenched his heart:  “You never thought of me!” Nothing else counted.

Harry turned the handle of the door and stepped boldly in, his head erect, his eyes searching the room.  It was filled with gentlemen, some sitting, some standing; not only those who had taken part in the duel, but three or four others who were in possession of the secret that lay heavy on everybody’s mind.

He looked about him:  most of the candles had burned low in the socket; some had gone out.  The few that still flickered cast a dim, ghostly light.  The remains of the night’s revel lay on the larger table and the serving tables:—­a half empty silver dish of terrapin, caked over with cold grease; portion of a ham with the bone showing; empty and partly filled glasses and china cups from which the toddies and eggnog had been drunk.  The smell of rum and lemons intermingled with the smoke of snuffed-out candle wicks greeted his nostrils—­a smell he remembered for years and always with a shudder.

There had evidently been a heated discussion, for his father was walking up and down the room, his face flushed, his black eyes blazing with suppressed anger, his plum-colored coat unbuttoned as if to give him more breathing space, his silk scarf slightly awry.  St. George Temple must have been the cause of his wrath, for the latter’s voice was reverberating through the room as Harry stepped in.

“I tell you, Talbot, you shall not—­you dare not!” St. George was exclaiming, his voice rising in the intensity of his indignation.  His face was set, his eyes blazing; all his muscles taut.  He stood like an avenging knight guarding some pathway.  Harry looked on in amazement—­he had never seen his uncle like this before.

The colonel wheeled about suddenly and raised his clenched hand.  He seemed to be nervously unstrung and for a moment to have lost his self-control.

“Stop, St. George!” he thundered.  “Stop instantly!  Not another word, do you hear me?  Don’t strain a friendship that has lasted from boyhood or I may forget myself as you have done.  No man can tell me what I shall or shall not do when my honor is at stake.  Never before has a Rutter disgraced himself and his blood.  I am done with him, I tell you!”

“But the man will get well!” hissed St. George, striding forward and confronting him.  “Teackle has just said so—­you heard him; we all heard him!”