'Did they? Why, yes,' said Mr. Gibson. 'Yes, that's true. Somebody said my name, twice. Once while I waited. Once, just as I was getting off. Somebody knew me' He was suddenly excited.
'Who, Kenneth? Who?'
He shook his head. 'I . . . don't know,' he said with shame. 'I paid no attention.'
'He was sunk,' said the painter nodding vigorously, looking like a turkey cock, his wattles shaking. 'He was sunk. I noticed that.'
'Did you notice who spoke to him?' Rosemary demanded.
The painter looked dashed. 'Darned if I did,' he said with chagrin. 'I'm so eye-minded. Oh, I heard. But I made no picture of the speaker. I did not connect. However ...' He paused in vanity until all of them were waiting on him. 'I believe I did see somebody pick up the paper bag.'
'Who?'
'Who?'
'Who?'
They exploded like popcorn.
'A young woman. A mere girl. A very handsome young female,' the painter said. 'I was looking at her face. But I do believe she picked up that greenish paper bag and carried it off the bus. Yes.'
'When?'
'After he got off, just after. I was driven back to the ear by default.'
'Who was she?'
The painter shrugged. 'I'd know her,' he said, 'but I'd have to see her. Names, labels, mean nothing to me.'
'Where did she get off?'
'Oh, not many blocks after . . .' Distance meant nothing to him, either.
'Was she dark?' said Paul Townsend, tensely.
'I suppose you mean ... to put it, crudely . . . was her hair of a darkish color? Yes.'
'Jeanie! cried Paul. 'Oh Lord, oh God, it could have been Jeanie. Where's your telephone?'
'No telephone,' said Mrs. Boatright. 'Who is Jeanie?'
Paul had moved into the center somehow. He was tall and angry. He glared at everyone. He was a raging lion.
'But Paul,' said Rosemary, 'what makes you think it could be Jeanie?'
'Because she went to her music lesson, just about then. Her teacher is out on the Boulevard. She could have got on as he got off. She knew him. She would have spoken. She might have taken his empty seat. Jeanie l' Paul's handsome face contorted.
'Who is Jeanie?' the painter wanted to know.
'My daughter!' yelled Paul. 'My daughter!'
'But if Jeanie saw him . . .' Rosemary frowned and concentrated.
'How could she know where he'd been sitting? How could she know it was himI' said Paul, losing control of his grammar in his agitation, 'who left the poison? Maybe she . . . Oh, no!' Paul groaned. 'Jeanie's got sense. Jeanie's a darned sensible kid. You all know that,' he appealed pitifully. 'But I got to call home. If anything's happened to Mama! Oh no, oh Lord . . . I've got to get to a phone. She was pretty, you say?'
The painter said, 'She was lovely.' His eyes were watching. 'Not quite the same thing.'
'Jeanie is lovely. That's sure. I'm getting out of here.' Paul was beside himself. 'Listen, Mama likes her supper early. Jeanie will be fixing Mama's supper too soon now. It's getting on to five o'clock. I got to call. If Mama were to get that poison, what would I do?'
'Mama?' Mrs. Boatright raised her brows at the Gibsons.
'His mother-in-law,' said Rosemary rather awesomely. 'An old lady ... a crippled old lady . . .'
'She may be old but she's lived long enough to know something,' raved Paul, as upset as anyone had ever seen him. 'She's raised my Jeanie—raised me, if you want to know the truth. She's a wonderful old lady, God love her. . . . The whole house depends on her. I could never have gone on without her, when Frances died . . . Listen, I'm very sorry but I have to get going and it's my . . . well, my car.'
'Mr. Marsh,' said Rosemary, springing up, 'could it possibly be his daughter?'
'Could be,' said Theo Marsh. 'No resemblance.'
'Jeanie looks like her dead mother,' cried Paul. 'Not a bit like me. Listen, I'll take you all back into town, but you'll have to come now.'
'I'll drive, said Lee Coffey with instant sympathy. ''You're kinda upset and I'm faster. I suppose this is possible?' he said to the rest of them.
'Is there a phone at the junction?' cried Paul.
'Yes, a phone,' said Virginia, her hand still in Lee's hand.
'Oh yes,' said Theo Marsh, 'at the gas station. IJp,
