quarter of a million, roughly. And you couldn't let it go. Not for enough to keep you in comfort for the rest of your life. Not for anything less. You never took your losses, did you? And your gains are no good, either. Because nothing is ever enough. There must be more and more, until you lose everything. Strange you couldn't see how inevitably you'd lose it all.'
Isabel said!, 'I never meant anything. I never meant anything at all. I. . . Somebody else must have moved the chest . . .'
'No,' said Duff.
'But I . . .'
'You had the key to the old porch door. You had a thousand keys.'
'But I . . .'
'You kept things,' said Duff.
'I only called Alice because I. . .'
'No,' said Duff.
'I was worried about Innes.'
'To be sure, you had to know that he hadn't got the poisoned pill yet.'
'She felt my pulse,' said Fred.
'Yes,' said Duff. 'You see?'
'But I . . .'
Alice, on the edge of the bed with Fred's arm around her, saw the queer eyes lick out, this way and that, for an opening. Saw her find it.
Gertrude was as white as death in her chair, and her sightless eyes were closed. She moaned. The sound called Duff. The light went with him, brightening that comer and letting shadow fall on the rest.
Isabel picked up the aspirin bottle.
Fred jumped, but Alice's dead weight followed him and entangled him.
The ghastliest sight she ever saw, thought Alice, was Isabel, in the half-dark, shaking the aspirin bottle into her open mouth with her only hand.
Fred said, 'Well, she got it. It was poison, ail right.'
Duff looked down.
'What is justice?' he said, 'I don't know, do you? Perhaps they'd call her mad.'
'I guess this is justice,' Fred said grimly, 'or a facsimile of same.'
Art Killeen came charging in. 'Alice. Alice, I thought ... I thought. . .'
'Did you think it was me?' she said without much emotion. 'How funny! I thought it was you.' He looked at her and shook his head, puzzled, without comprehension. ''No percentage,' said Alice.
'Look out,' cried Fred. 'Put her head down.'
When Alice, lying on the bed, heard a woman scream, she felt scarcely able to take an interest. She turned her head, idly. Women were always screaming, and this was only Susan Innes, shocked, in the door.
'I saw the lights ... I had come . . . Oh, Mr. Duff, what happened?'
But Gertrude answered. The straw-colored woman, brittle and shining and weak, like straw. Her voice was clear, and the bell tones were sad. She held herself stiffly, and the syllables tinkled mourning. 'Poor Maud,' she said. 'Poor, poor Isabel. Oh, Susan, there has been a dreadful tragedy. Isabel moved the chest in the hall. And poor Maud was deceived in the dark. Maud fell out the old porch door. She's dead. And Isabel'—Gertrude's face was frozen—'Isabel, in her remorse . . .' the voice was cool . . . 'over the accident. . .' said Gertrude.
'Oh, my dear!'
'Yes, I shall be alone,' said Gertrude. 'Well, I shall never be a burden.' She stood up and moved lq her uncanny way. She went out the door and down the hall. She paused at the open outer door, the one that led to nothing.
But she went on. The feet found the stairs easily in the dark.
'So that's her version,' muttered Fred.
'Forever,' said Duff sadly.
Killeen was stroking Alice's hair. 'Be quiet. Just rest.'
'Where's everybody?'
'You're in your own room. They're . . . attending to things. Darling . . .'
'I wish you'd get over that,' said Alice crossly. 'Where's Mr. Duff? Where's Fred?' It was as if she'd said, 'Where are my friends?'
Innes was calling, somewhere.
'Hadn't you better trot?' said Alice. 'Don't you hear him calling you?'
He said, 'Good-by, darling.'
'But she is blind,' Fred said, later, 'physically bhnd, I mean?'
