Mrs. Boatright let Rosemary go first into the tonneau while she turned and said to her son, 'Keep Dell off the phone. I may call.'
'Gosh, Ma, give me something easy,' the boy said.
His mother flipped her hand farewell and she got in and Mr. Gibson, last, beside her.
'Where to?' said the bus driver respectfully.
'Go out the Boulevard,' said Mrs. Boatright, 'all the way to the end of the bus line. Theo Marsh has a studio in the country. Quite a hideaway. But I believe I know the turn. If not, we can inquire at the junction.'
The car was moving already.
'I don't just remember anybody who looked like a painter' Lee said, 'getting off the end of the line. You mean, a fine-art-type painter?'
'If he got off sooner,' said Mrs. Boatright, 'we cannot know where he was heading, and there is no use wondering about it. We must go on what we know.'
'Sure thing,' said Lee. 'That's abso-tootly right.'
'Very rustic, that studio,' Mrs. Boatright continued. 'The man's a fine painter, yes. But I'm just afraid . . .'
'Afraid?' Rosemary's voice sounded tired. Mr. Gibson couldn't see her now. Not with Mrs. Boatright in the middle.
'If Theo Marsh, of all people, found a bottle of olive oil on a bus ... I assume it was imported?'
'Yes,' said Mr. Gibson.
''He would accept it joyously, as a gift from the gods, and he, and that model of his, would add it to some feast or other with no hesitation. What a loss it would be!' said Mrs. Boatright. 'A fine artist! We can't spare them.'
'What time is it?' asked Rosemary tensely.
'Only four o'clock . . . just about one minute after,' Paul told them. 'Too early for supper.'
'Alas,' said Mrs. Boatright, 'I imagine Theo Marsh will eat when he is hungry .1 doubt if the man has names for meals.'
'Is it very far?' asked Rosemary pathetically.
'Thirty minutes,' promised Lee Coffey. 'Do I know that boulevard!'
The car picked up its heels and scooted rapidly down curving streets.
'Now what's all this,' said Mrs. Boatright severely, 'about suicide?'
Mr. Gibson put his hand over his eyes.
'Ever since Ethel came,' said Rosemary passionately. 'Ever since she came! I don't know what she's done to him. I was too upset by what she did to me.'
'You are his wife, my dear?'
'Yes, I am,' said Rosemary as defiantly as if somebody else had claimed the title.
'And our driver is the driver of the bus, is he not?' Mrs. Boatright was proceeding with order, ignoring outbursts. 'And the other gentleman?'
'I am their neighbor,' said Paul. 'Townsend is my name.'
'And our friend,' said Rosemary with a forced sweetness as if she were struggling to keep polite and calm.
''And Miss Severson was a passenger?' Mrs. Boatright sailed right on, 'Does anyone remember the tale of the Golden Goose?'
'Hey!' said the bus driver. 'Sure, I remember. Everybody who takes ahold has to tag along. That's pretty good, Mrs. Boatright.' I
'But who is Ethel?' Mrs. Boatright had come around | a curve and would have all clear.
'Ethel,' said Rosemary in a desperately even tone, 'is Kenneth's sister, a good woman, a fine person, who came
here to help and to take care of us, after we had an accident . . .' Her voice rose. 'I shouldn't have said what I did. But I can't—I cannot be grateful any more. It's no time to be grateful. It just doesn't count any more.' The strain was telling and Rosemary began to cry. 'This terrible trouble and it's getting late and I'd so hate it to be an artist . . . way out in the country and no help near-by ...'
Mr. Gibsqn, too, could see, ahead of them, a rustic studio strewn with bodies.
'There wouldn't be much help,' said Paul miserably. ''That stuff works fast.'
'Now, we'll see, when we get there,' said Mrs. Boat-right, 'and not before. Mr. Coffey is making the best possible time. We are doing the best possible thing.' 'It's so long . . .' wept Rosemary. So Mrs. Boatright, who was in equal parts mother and commanding officer, took Rosemary to her bosom and began to stroke her hair. Mr. Gibson felt a tremendous relief. He blessed Mrs. Boatright. The three heads in the front seat were still, facing forward.
'Gratitude,' said the bus driver suddenly, 'is for the birds. There's all kinds of ins and outs to this, Mrs. Boat- right, and we don't know the half of them. But this Ethel —see, Mrs. Boatright?—she puts it into Rosemary's head that Rosemary meant to get him smashed up in an auto accident, which is why he is limping, did you notice? Well, this Ethel, she's got poor Rosemary feeling guilty as hell because she was driving at the time, although it was a pure and simple accident . . . but this Ethel she's the kind who knows better than you do what your real motives were, see? And Rosemary thinks she shouldn't get mad at Ethel, because this Ethel shows up to help and all and
