on earth he had ever fallen in love with Emma, or how she had come to be in turn the abject slave of such an amiable scamp as Downes. It made no sense, that thing which got hold of you, brain and body, in such a tyrannical fashion. (He was thinking all this again, as he stood facing the ruffled Emma beneath the cold glow of the green Moorish light.)
"Look here, Em," he was saying, "that boy has got to have a little peace. You let him alone for a time."
"What do you mean? What does a man like you, John McTavish, know about such things?"
The fat undertaker saw in a swift flash that the invincible Emma was not only ruffled, but frightened.
"Well, you know what I mean. The boy ain't like you. That's where you've always made a mistake, Em . . . in thinking everybody is like yourself. He's a bundle of nerves—that boy—and sensitive. Anybody with half an eye can see it."
"I ought to know my boy." She began to grow dramatic. "My own flesh . . . that I gave birth to . . . I ought to know what's good for him, without having to be told."
McTavish remained calm, save for an odd wave of hatred for this woman he had desired thirty years ago. "That's all right. You ought to know, Em, but you don't. You'd better let him alone . . . or you'll be losing him . . . too."
The last word he uttered after a little pause, as if intentionally he meant to imply things about the disappearance and death of Mr. Downes. She started to speak, and then, thinking better of it, checked herself, buttoned her lips tightly, and opened the front door with an ominous air.
