'My sister,' said Mr. Gibson, tossed in the storm of this outburst, yet somehow wanting to laugh out loud, which seemed unsuitable.
'Some sister,' said the bus driver gloomily.
'She came to . . . take care of us . . . after the accident ...'
'I must confess,' said Paul, his syllables falling rapidly, 'that we don't . . . Mama and Jeanie and I ... we just don't care too much for Ethel. She seems so cold and superior . . .'
'My sister Ethel!' said Mr. Gibson.
'Ruthless. Hey?' muttered the bus driver. 'Every last one of us, hey? The whole category? 'Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men . . .' '
'You are fond of Shakespeare?' asked Mr. Gibson.
'Sure, I am. Not only his language hits the spot: his music does, too. You like Shakespeare, don't you?'
'I like Shakespeare very much,' said Mr. Gibson vrith his hair rising on his head in delighted astonishment. 'Do you like Browning?' he asked with strange urgency.
'Some of it. Quite a lot of it. Of course you got to get onto his system.'
'He was kind of a lady's man.'
'The ladies were the ones who had the time to—you know—ruminate, in a refined way,' said Lee Coffey, 'or
they used to before they started being riveters and tycoons.'
'Just so,' said Mr. Gibson almost comfortably.
Rosemary was not weeping any more. She sat with her shoulder to his. 'Did you ever hear Ethel speak of a blonde?' she said demurely.
'What'd she say?' demanded the bus driver.
But Paul Townsend was fidgeting. 'Look, I don't like to keep worrying,' he said plaintively, 'but where is this blonde? She might have the poison herself, you know. She might be in danger. She might be dead. I don't see how you can talk about Shakespeare and Browning!'
The bus driver said calmly, 'She must live within four or five blocks of this next comer. What time is it?'
'Three twenty. Three twenty-two in fact.'
'Yeah, well—not many take olive oil for a snack between meals.'
'Oh, that's true!' cried Rosemary, clapping her hands. 'We have more time than we thought.'
'Maybe,' said Mr. Gibson hopefully but he thought within, where a twinge—the pain of life—was creeping. But there are accidents. He felt a sweet sense of expansion, and a piercing alarm, all together.
Accidents are possible.
Chapter XVI
THERE WAS a light at the comer of Allen Street and the Boulevard. Lee Coffey turned right on Allen. Nobody said a word. Paul's car mooched down the first block: the driver seemed to be testing the very air for the scent. The car crossed one intersection. Then, in the middle of the second block on Allen, it stopped.
Lee Coffey analyzed the situation aloud. He held his head down; his eyes were roving; he spoke like a conspirator. 'Her place will be on this side of Allen. Or around a comer from this side. She waits for the light on this side of Allen . . . see? If she had to cross, she'd cross at the Boulevard, see what I mean?'
Mr. Gibson, on the edge of the seat, nodded solemnly. At the same time he felt a little childish pleasure, as if this were a game.
'Now,' said Lee, 'the first block was all duplexes. Five- and six-room places. But these are private houses, old enough and big enough for taking in roomers.' He was right. This second block was an old block. The houses stood up off the ground. Their roofs were up in the tree-tops and the trees were high—conditions not always present in the bursting newness of a California town. 'I don't think she's got a lot of dough,' he went on, 'and I do think she lives by herself. If she had a family, somebody would have a car.' This was true in California, U.S.A. 'And they'd work it so she wouldn't have to take the bus as much as she does. I get a pretty good idea who rides with me, you know.'
'But what can we do,' said Paul, 'when you don't know her name?'
'What are we going to do, Lee?' asked Rosemary confidently, eagerly. She was on the edge of the seat too.
'This is what we are going to do. We ring doorbells. We take one block at a time. Each of you ask for a blond young lady, not very tall, who is some kind of nurse. Why I say that . . . I've seen her wear white stockings. And, while lots of jobs will take a white uniform, there ain't a female on earth wears white stocking unless she has to. Now, if you find her, or any news of her, give a yell, make a noise to the rest of us. Ask if they've seen her i walking by, and if so, which way she turns. But don't tell ; why you're asking.' His eye caught Mr. Gibson's wince, j 'Because it would take too long,' the bus driver said, j 'O.K.?' i
This all seemed very logical and clear to everyone. All four of them tumbled out and were deployed. Rosemary ran back along the sidewalk to start at the beginning of the block. Paul went striding far to tlie left to begin at the end. Lee Coffey started where he was, his nostrils seeming to quiver. He had some reason, Mr. Gibson guessed, to suspect this spot, a certain house. A reason he could not or would not explain. Lee Coffey was to work to the left. Mr. Gibson took the next door and would work to the right and meet Rosemary.
He limped up the front walk of the house assigned to him and rang the bell. Nobody answered it; nobody
seemed to be at home. Mr. Gibson stood on the strange stoop and rang and rang in a dream. (He was Mr. Gibson of the English Department. No. He was crazy. No, but he was a criminal. Or he was a man in a desperate plight who had friends to fight fate for him. How could he let them down? or let them know that they were doomed?
