He moved noisily across the room and halted again to survey the scene. A cupboard had been roughly emptied and the clock had been overturned when Lytton searched its shelf; in another room an old dresser stood gaping, the things it had contained in a pile on the floor, its drawers flung in a corner. Everywhere was evidence of a hurried search for a hidden thing. And that sought object was the bottle, the contents of which had sent the prostrate figure into its present state. "You're just ... carrion!" he said, disgustedly, staring at Lytton. Then, with set face, he undressed the man, laid him gently on the pillows and covered him well. "God help me to remember that you're a cripple!" he muttered, and turned to straighten the disorder of his house. An hour later Bayard drew a chair to the bedside, seated himself and frowned steadily at the sleeping man. "I've got to remember you're a cripple ... got to," he said, over and over. "For her sake, I must. An' I can't ... trust myself near her ... I can't!" The drunken man roused himself with a start and stared blearily, unintelligently into the other's face. "Tha's righ', Ole Man," he mumbled. "Tha's ri'...." CHAPTER VIII A HEART SPEAKS With forebodings Bruce Bayard went to Ann Lytton the next day. She saw trouble on his face as he entered her room. "What is it?" she asked, quietly, steadying herself, for she was ever ready for the worst. He only continued to look gravely at her. "Don't be afraid to tell me, Mr. Bayard. I can stand it; you can't hide it." He looked at her, until he made sure that she was not speculating, that she was certain that he brought her bad news. "Yesterday, while I was here, your husband ransacked my house an' found a quart of whiskey I had...." "Oh! After he sent you away, making you feel..." "You know him right well, ma'am," he interrupted. "Yes, I guess all his show of bein' himself in th' mornin' was to get me to move out so he could look for th' booze. He knew it was there; he'd been waitin' this chance, I expect." "How awful! What a way to treat you." He smiled. "Don't mind me, ma'am; I'm thinkin' about you." She looked back at him bravely. "And the other day ... when you left, you tried to make me stop thinking these kind things about you," she challenged. "You suggested that your interest in Ned and in me might not be fine." It did not occur to either of them that at such a moment, under those conditions which they told themselves prevailed, talk and thought of their own special relations was out of place. "I'm only doin' what I can ... for you," he assured her. "An' I guess it ain't much I can do. I'm kind of a failure at reformin' men, I guess. I want to keep on tryin', though. I,"--he moistened his lips--"I don't like to think of givin' up an' I don't like to think of turnin' him over to you like he is." She smiled appreciatively, downing her misery for the moment, and hastened to say: