Then Roger told her what he had been reluctant to tell. "I saw him
down-town. I think he was on his way to the Country Club. He had been
dining with some friends."
"Men friends?"
"Yes. He called one of them Jerry."
He saw the color rise in her face. "I hate Jerry Tuckerman, and Barry
promised Constance he'd let those boys alone."
Her voice had a sharp note in it, but he saw that she was struggling
with a gripping fear.
This, then, was the burden she was bearing? And what a brave little
thing she was to face the world with her head up.
"Would you like to have me call the Country Club--I might be able to
get your brother on the wire."
"Oh; if you would."
But he was saved the trouble. For, even while they spoke of him, Barry
came, and Mary went down to him.
A little later, there were stumbling steps upon the stairs, and a voice
was singing--a strange song, in which each verse ended with a shout.
Roger, stepping out into the dark upper hall, looked down over the
railing. Mary, a slender shrinking figure; was coming with her brother
up the lower flight. Barry had his arm around her, but her face was
turned from him, and her head drooped.
Then, still looking down, Roger saw her guide those stumbling steps to
the threshold of the boy's room. The door opened and shut, and she was
alone, but from within there still came the shouted words of that
strange song.
Mary stood for a moment with her hands clenched at her sides, then
turned and laid her face against the closed door, her eyes hidden by
her upraised arm.