He brushed aside her customary defence. As he continued speaking she noticed that always his voice shook as
his fingers shook, as his stooped shoulders jerked spasmodically.
"I ordered Mr. Robert here to-night. Not a word from him. I'd made up my mind anyway. My lawyer's coming
in the morning. My money goes to the Bedford Foundation--all except a little annuity for you, Katy. It's hard
on you, but I've got no faith left in my flesh and blood."
His voice choked with a sentiment a little repulsive in view of his ruthless nature, his unbending egotism.
"It's sad, Katy, to grow old with nobody caring for you except to covet your money."
She arose and went close to him. He drew back, startled.
"You're not fair, Uncle."
With an unexpected movement, nearly savage, he pushed her aside and started for the door.
"Uncle!" she cried. "Tell me! You must tell me! What makes you afraid?"
He turned at the door. He didn't answer. She laughed feverishly.
"It--it's not Bobby you're afraid of?"
"You and Bobby," he grumbled, "are thicker than thieves."
She shook her head.
"Bobby and I," she said wistfully, "aren't very good friends, largely because of this life he's leading."
He went on out of the room, mumbling again incoherently.
She resumed her vigil, unable to read because of her misgivings, staring at the fire, starting at a harsher gust of
wind or any unaccustomed sound. And for a long time there beat against her brain the shuffling, searching
tread of her uncle. Its cessation about eleven o'clock increased her uneasiness. He had been so afraid! Suppose
already the thing he had feared had overtaken him? She listened intently. Even then she seemed to sense the
soundless footsteps of disaster straying in the decayed house, and searching, too.
A morbid desire to satisfy herself that her uncle's silence meant nothing evil drove her upstairs. She stood in
the square main hall at the head of the stairs, listening. Her uncle's bedroom door lay straight ahead. To her
right and left narrow corridors led to the wings. Her room and Bobby's and a spare room were in the
right-hand wing. The opposite corridor was seldom used, for the left-hand wing was the oldest portion of the
house, and in the march of years too many legends had gathered about it. The large bedroom was there with
its private hall beyond, and a narrow, enclosed staircase, descending to the library. Originally it had been the
custom for the head of the family to use that room. Its ancient furniture still faded within stained walls. For
many years no one had slept in it, because it had sheltered too much suffering, because it had witnessed the
reluctant spiritual departure of too many Blackburns.
Katherine shrank a little from the black entrance of the corridor, but her anxiety centred on the door ahead.
She was about to call when a stirring beyond it momentarily reassured her.
The door opened and her uncle stepped out. He wore an untidy dressing-gown. His hair was disordered. His
face appeared grayer and more haggard than it had downstairs. A lighted candle shook in his right hand.