“Well, it's going to play hob with everything,” he said, jamming his hands deep into his pockets. His shoulders seemed to hunch forward and to contract. “I am especially sorry for Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs,” she said. Her voice was steady and full of earnestness. “Do they know?” “They were up and about at daybreak, poor souls. Do you know, Freddy, they were starting off in this blizzard when I met them in the hall!” “The deuce! I--I hope it wasn't on account of anything I may have said to them last night,” he cried in contrition. She smiled. “No. They had their own theory about the message. The storm strengthened it. They were positive that your father was in great peril. I don't like to tell you this, but they seemed to think that you couldn't be depended upon to take a hand in--in--well, in helping him. They were determined to charter a vessel of some sort and start off in all this blizzard to search the sea for Mr Brood. Oh, aren't they wonderful?” He had no feeling of resentment toward the old men for their opinion of him. Instead, his eyes glowed with an honest admiration. “By George, Mrs Desmond, they _are_ great! They are _men_, bless their hearts. Seventy-five years old and still ready to face anything for a comrade! It _does_ prove something, doesn't it?” “It proves that your father has made no mistake in selecting his friends, my dear. My husband used to say that he would cheerfully die for James Brood, and he knew that James Brood would have died for him just as readily. There is something in friendships of that sort that we can't understand. We never have been able to test our friends, much less ourselves. We----” “I would die for you, Mrs Desmond,” cried Frederic, a deep flush overspreading his face. “For you and Lydia.” “You come by that naturally,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm. “Blood will tell. Thank you, Frederic.” She smiled. “I am sure it will not be necessary for you to die for me, however. As for Lydia, you must live, not die, for her.” “I'll do both,” he cried impulsively. “Before you go in to breakfast I want to say something else to you, Frederic,” said she seriously. “Lydia has repeated everything you said to her last night. My dear boy, my husband has been dead for twelve years. I loved him, and he died loving me. I shall never marry another man. I am still the wife of John Desmond; I still consider myself bound to him. Can you understand?” “I talked like a lunatic last night, I fear,” he confessed. “I might have known. You, too, belong to the list of loyal ones. Forgive me.”