Death in Silhouette. John Russell Fearn

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СКАЧАТЬ I see.” Pat gave Keith a glance. “Keith, don’t you think—”

      What Pat thought was never expressed, for at that moment Keith Robinson fainted.

      There was no warning beyond his rubbing his forehead once or twice, then suddenly his knees gave way and he fell flat on his face. Pat stared down at him in horror.

      “It’s this room!” Ambrose Robinson declared, jumping up. “Too confoundedly hot for words! Keith never could stand a hot room.” He stooped, lifted Keith’s slight body across to the sofa and eased him onto it. Then he opened his collar.

      Without waiting to be told, Pat hurried out into the back kitchen and returned with water in a basin. Ambrose Robinson whipped up his napkin from the table and dipped it in the water, began to smooth it across Keith’s forehead. He stirred but did not revive.

      “Shall I get a doctor?” Pat asked urgently

      Ambrose Robinson did not reply. He held Keith’s wrist gently, taking his pulse. There was a brooding look on his gaunt face.

      “No,” he said finally; “he’ll be all right in a while. I can handle him.” He turned his head towards Pat again and she studied his vulture-like features. “I think you’d better go, Pat,” he said deliberately.

      “But I don’t want to go! I want to be sure he’s all right. I can’t think what made him pass out like that.…”

      “I can,” Ambrose Robinson said. “Drink! His breath is defiled with it—and so is yours!” He got to his feet and towered over the girl. “I noticed it when I kissed you. Where have you led my boy? What do you plan to do to do to him?”

      Pat gestured helplessly. “But—but it’s nothing. We drank some wine. My dad insisted that we should—to celebrate.”

      “You behold the result!” Ambrose Robinson snapped, pointing a bony finger at Keith. “To the best of my knowledge Keith has never taken intoxicant in his life. Wine—a hot room —and the fact that he is not an overstrong young man.… So he collapsed. ‘My heart is smitten and withered like grass.’ Psalms.”

      “What’s that got to do with it?” Pat demanded angrily.

      Ambrose Robinson ignored her question. “Young woman,” he said coldly, “I live to rule. You have chosen to become engaged to my son. Inevitably his feet will be directed out of the narrow path I had chosen for him. This is the beginning: that he falls under the curse of drink.”

      “A glass of wine isn’t the curse of drink! It’s just Keith’s hard luck that he couldn’t stand it.… And I’m staying until he comes round.”

      “No!” Ambrose Robinson said. “You are leaving, Pat— and ‘confounded be they that serve graven images’!”

      Pat hesitated, looked again at the deeply sleeping, sprawled figure, then without another word she turned and went. With a harassed face she returned home through the quiet, hot streets. The moments with Ambrose Robinson had been intensely disturbing. Her expression gave her away the moment she entered the living room at home.

      “Say, wait a minute,” her father said slowly, tossing aside his newspaper and getting up from the chesterfield. “What’s happened to you, Pat? You should be full of smiles and yet you look as though you’re nearing crying.”

      “I am!” she declared fiercely, and burst out weeping as she threw herself down at the table. Irritably she pushed away the plate that had been laid for her tea.

      “What’s the matter?” her father asked. “Quarrel?”

      “No,” Pat mumbled, her face buried.

      “Must have been to get you in this state.”

      Pat did not answer. Her mother put an arm about her shoulders.

      “What is it, dear? What’s wrong?”

      “Look here,” her father said, “if that eagle-nosed old Ambrose scared you I’ll go over there this minute and tell him just—”

      “It’s all because you gave Keith that wine!” Pat complained, looking up, and between gasps she got out the whole story. Instead of her father looking contrite, he began to laugh.

      “When did it happen?” he asked, chuckling. “In the street?”

      “No. We’d been in the house about ten minutes and then—”

      Mr. Taylor laughed again and tears came into his eyes.

      “It isn’t funny, Dad!” Pat objected, her own tears beginning to cease.

      “Isn’t it, my girl?” Her father exploded internally. “Gosh, I can just imagine the face of that religious old fathead when his son passed out through quaffing the Devil’s brew. Do old Ambrose good!” he snorted. “He’s always trying to look like the archangel Gabriel while he spouts his yards of memorized scripture. ’Bout time he got acquainted with the facts of life.”

      “But, Dad, what do we do about Keith?”

      Mr. Taylor’s laughter subsided into a grin. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “He’ll sleep it off. Evidently he’s got the kind of mollycoddled constitution that folds up under a drink. Some people have. Won’t do the lad any harm. As for Ambrose, forget him. Next time I see him I’ll tell him exactly what I think.” Pat found her shoulders shaken with an understanding roughness. “Smile, girl, smile! You’re engaged! You should be as happy as a lark. There isn’t a thing to worry about! There’s only one solution to a drink knocking you out cold—have a bigger drink next time.”

      “After all, Harry, that isn’t very practical,” Mrs. Taylor said seriously.

      “Not practical!” he echoed. “Great Scott, my dear, if you’d been to as many engineering conventions as I have you’d know it’s the only answer. I’ve done my share,” Mr. Taylor added firmly, “and I know what I’m talking about.… Listen, Pat, get on with your tea and hear about a scheme your mum and I have thought up.”

      By degrees the infection of Mr. Taylor’s good spirits began to tell and Pat even found herself laughing too at the thought of Keith laid out through celebrating his engagement. She drew her plate, knife, and fork back to her and helped herself to sardines and salad. Her father squatted down at one side of the table and her mother at the other.

      “Keith might as well get in practice,” Mr. Taylor said dryly, “because there’s a big celebration coming up—say on Wednesday next week. You’ll be at home from noon and it will give you plenty of chance to doll up. Greg will also be home early on Wednesday, and so shall I.”

      “You mean we’re going to throw a party?” Pat asked, in sudden excitement.

      “That’s just what I mean. I’ll arrange it personally—and you know the kind of parties I arrange!”

      “Do I! No expense spared.… Who’ll be coming?”

      “Everybody that matters. Keith, his father, and you’ll want to dig up some of your own friends. What about those two boys who’ve been following you around with cow-eyes СКАЧАТЬ