She went into the library and tried to read, but the late fall wind swirled mournfully about the house and beat down the chimney, causing the fire to cast disturbing shadows across the walls. Her loneliness, and her nervousness, grew sharper. The restless, shuffling footsteps stimulated her imagination. Perhaps a mental breakdown was responsible for this alteration. She was tempted to ring for Jenkins, the butler, to share her vigil; or for one of the two women servants, now far at the back of the house. "And Bobby," she said to herself, "or somebody will have to come out here to-morrow to help." But Silas Blackburn shuffled in just then, and she was a trifle ashamed as she studied him standing with his back to the fire, glaring around the room, fumbling with hands that shook in his pocket for his pipe and some loose tobacco. It was unjust to be afraid of him. There was no question. The man himself was afraid--terribly afraid. His fingers trembled so much that he had difficulty lighting his pipe. His heavy brows, gray like his beard, contracted in a frown. His voice quavered unexpectedly. He spoke of his grandson: "Bobby! Damned waster! God knows what he'll do next." "He's young, Uncle Silas, and too popular." 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.