Grandy's face was in darkness. His voice was vibrant. She could feel the vibrations
in her breast.
'You mustn't worry about me,' she said as stoutly as she could. 'Please, Grandy. I do love you so. And I'm all right.'
'Bless you.'
'Grandy,' she whispered, 'if you're frightened, it scares me more than anything. Don't talk any more. Not about that.'
She reached across. She thought he glanced at her, although she couldn't be sure, since his head didn't move in the dusk. Her fingers found the chain and she pulled on her light near the bed. 'Let's talk about something else.' She sent her voice high and gay. 'Please,
Grandy. Darling, I brought you a present and you haven't even seen it. I nearly forgot'
It took all the strength she had to be so gay. It took all the courage she could find to try to change the mood for him, as he had so often done for her.
'A present?' he said. His effort was obvious. But he understood and he would play. He would try to be cheerful. 'A present for me!'
She slid off the bed and ran to her dresser. The bag of Dutch chocolates was in the drawer. Grandy took it in his hands. He bowed his head. For a dreadful moment she thought he was going to weep. But he did not He opened the bag gleefully. He took a
handful out and tossed them gaily on the bed. For her, he said. Their secret. Their childish secret hoard of goodies. He made a show of it It should have been such fun.
But all the time she could hear the tears unshed behind his laughter, and when, at last, he kissed her gently on the cheek, and when he went away, clutching the bag of chocolates to his heart, Tyl threw herself on the bed and burst into tearing sobs.
Dear, dearest Grandy, he'd tried so hard, but it was enough to break your heart to see how hard he had to try.
Her ears muffled by the sounds of her own weeping, it was a while before she heard the staccato tapping on the glass. Mathilda sat up, face wet, eyes red, hair tousled, frozen in the very image of distress, all rumpled by it. She saw him clinging there outside her window.
She knew who it was, and in a curious mood of suspended emotion she got off the bed and went calmly to open the window. Francis scrambled in. He gave her a quick look, enigmatic, and went immediately to lock the door to the hall. Tyl opened her mouth to protest. He hushed her.
'What was Grandy saying?'
She looked dumbly at him, the tears drying on her checks. For the moment, she couldn't remember what it was Grandy had been saying. Francis' face was serious, but his eyes hadn't that dark, reproachful, tortured look. On the contrary, they looked down at her with a warm light behind them, something simpler and more friendly than love.
He said, 'I do wish you could trust me, Mathilda. I wish you could trust me a little bit, anyhow. I don't know what I'm going to do about you.'
'You needn't do anything about me, thank you!' she said fiercely.
His hand on her arm invited her to sit down on the bed. He pulled the dressing-table bench over. They sat there, knee to knee. It seemed absurd, yet Mathilda had a feeling, half memory, that she owed him some courtesy. She sat where he had put her, and
prepared to listen.
'You haven't believed very much of what I've told you,' he asked her gently, 'have you, Mathilda?'
'No.'
'There's one thing maybe you could believe, if you'd try. I don't want anything bad to happen to you.'
'Why does everybody think something bad might h-happen?' Her voice shook. 'I'm all right.'
He took her hands suddenly and eagerly. 'What did he say? He was talking to you about something happening, was he?' She didn't answer. Francis released her hands, although she hadn't tried to pull away. 'I wish you could believe me. This is the damnedest mess. I know. You've got good reasons not to trust me an inch. And yet—Mathilda, listen. I never did think there was any danger that you'd kill yourself. Can you believe that? I was only trying to fix it so nothing would happen to you.'
She shook her head, couldn't understand.
He went on desperately, 'Now I'm going to do one thing more . . . might help. I want to ask you—I want to beg you to make it a little easier.'
'What do you think might happen to me?' she insisted. Her green eyes challenged.
His dark eyes wavered. Then they came back boldly. 'You might as well know that much. I don't want you to be murdered.'
'To be what?'
'Murdered, as Rosaleen was. Althea too.' His voice was very low. Mathilda drew away, leaned back, away from him, watching his face. He was watching hers. It was a strange duel between them.
'Why do you think they were murdered?' she said at last. 'Are you a detective or what?' She was thinking, This explains— And yet nothing was quite clear.
“I'm no detective,' Francis said. Tm just a blundering ass, tangled up in a mess here. And one girl died who might have lived if I'd stayed out of it. I don't want you to be another.'
'You have been lying,' said Mathilda. She sat up straighter. 'You admit it now, don't you? All of that stuff in New York, all those people—you lied. You fixed it.'
He didn't answer. He kept watching her face.
'If you admit that,' she said, 'then I just might believe what you say now.'
Evading, he said, 'Did you tell Grandy about it?'
'Certainly.'
'About my lies?'
'Certainly.'
'Did he believe you?'
'Of course he did!' She would have risen in her rage and gone away, but he caught at her hand.
'Don't be angry. I asked a question. I just wanted the answer.'
'Grandy knows I wouldn't— He knows it couldn't be true that I— He knows—' she sputtered.
'Then why can't you tell me so, without getting so mad about it?'
'You won't admit you're lying!' she cried. 'And I know you're lying. Why won't you?'
'Is Grandy quite sure I was lying?'
Mathilda covered her face with both hands. 'Please, go away. Get out of my room. What do you want, anyway?'
He said grimly, 'I want to fix it so you'll live, baby. I've got here a will you made.'
'A will?'
'Will. Last will and testament. I expect it's one of those things you've forgotten. It was made in the three lost days.' Francis' voice and manner had changed. He was casual, glib. 'Oh, it's legal, all right. The whole thing is in your handwriting. Perfectly good last will and testament. At least plenty good enough to raise an awful stink if you should die.'
“If I should—'
'My object is . . . that you don't die. I believe that if I show this little paper in certain places, it will tend to lengthen your life.' He looked at her insolently. No, not insolently, but with a reckless look, a gambling look.
She said, 'Oh. Now I understand.'
'You do?'
'It was the money.' She laughed in his face. It pleased her to see his face sobering, losing some of that wild light. 'Why I should have been confused by the lie you told about your wealth— What's one more lie to you? You thought I was dead. You thought I'd never
come back! You worked out this whole scheme to chisel in.'
'Muscle,' he corrected. 'Muscle in.'
'You saw a chance to get your hands on the Frazier fortune! You re so good at forgeries. You really do lie very well.'
Francis looked down at her white angry face. 'I really don't know whether I can keep you from being murdered,' he said with a curious, detached effect. 'I'll try.'
Mathilda sprang up. Tm just beginning to wonder,' she blazed, 'if your scheme doesn't include my murder!'
They were eye to eye now in anger.
'In about a minute,' said Francis, Tm going to spank. I tell you you're in danger of your life. I know it. It makes no least difference to me what kind of liar you choose to call me. I'm some kinds of liar, but this kind I'm not. For some strange reason, I don't want you to die.'
'Because you love me,' sneered Mathilda.
'Unh-uh.' It was a negative. It slipped out. It was an admission. She ought to seize upon it triumphantly. But she didn't. 'Lets not worry about who loves whom,' he went on gently, and he was smiling. 'Let's forget that and go back and start over. Do you think you could listen to an idea?'
'What idea?'
'Sh-h, sh-h.'
'What idea?' she repeated more quietly.
'I'll show this will to-show this around. Nobody then is going to murder you for your money except me. Right?'
'Right,' she said.
'Now we'll protect you from me. Make another will, Mathilda, and hide it. Hide it from me, but tell a stranger where you hide it. The only thing is—promise don't tell—'
'Don't tell whom?'
'Don't tell anyone you know.'
Mathilda drew her breath as slowly as she could. She shook herself
