story. And then, without the slightest warning, I realized that she was crying. She shook off my hand and fumbled for her handkerchief, and failing to find it, she accepted the one I thrust into her wet fingers.
Then, little by little, she told me from the handkerchief, a sordid story of a motor trip in the mountains without Mrs. Curtis, of a lost road and a broken car, and a rainy night when they - she and Sullivan, tramped eternally and did not get home. And of Mrs. Curtis, when they got home at dawn, suddenly grown conventional and deeply shocked. Of her own proud, half-disdainful consent to make possible the hackneyed compromising situation by marrying the rascal, and then - of his disappearance from the train. It was so terrible to her, such a Heavensent relief to me, in spite of my rage against Sullivan, that I laughed aloud. At which she looked at me over the handkerchief.
“I know it’s funny,” she said, with a catch in her breath. “When I think that I nearly married a murderer - and didn’t - I cry for sheer joy.” Then she buried her face and cried again.
“Please don’t,” I protested unsteadily. “I won’t be responsible if you keep on crying like that. I may forget that I have a capital charge hanging over my head, and that I may be arrested at any moment.”
That brought her out of the handkerchief at once. “I meant to be so helpful,” she said, “and I’ve thought of nothing but myself! There were some things I meant to tell you. If Jennie was - what you say, then I understand why she came to me just before I left. She had been packing my things and she must have seen what condition I was in, for she came over to me when I was getting my wraps on, to leave, and said, ‘Don’t do it, Miss West, I beg you won’t do it; you’ll be sorry ever after.’ And just then Mrs. Curtis came in and Jennie slipped out.”
“That was all?”
“No. As we went through the station the telegraph operator gave Har - Mr. Sullivan a message. He read it on the platform, and it excited him terribly. He took his sister aside and they talked together. He was white with either fear or anger - I don’t know which. Then, when we boarded the train, a woman in black, with beautiful hair, who was standing on the car platform, touched him on the arm and then drew back. He looked at her and glanced away again, but she reeled as if he had struck her.”
“Then what?” The situation was growing clearer.
“Mrs. Curtis and I had the drawing-room. I had a dreadful night, just sleeping a little now and then. I dreaded to see dawn come. It was to be my wedding-day. When we found Harry had disappeared in the night, Mrs. Curtis was in a frenzy. Then - I saw his cigarette case in your hand. I had given it to him. You wore his clothes. The murder was discovered and you were accused of it! What could I do? And then, afterward, when I saw him asleep at the farmhouse, I - I was panic-stricken. I locked him in and ran. I didn’t know why he did it, but - he had killed a man.”
Some one was calling Alison through a megaphone, from the veranda. It sounded like Sam. “All-ee,” he called. “All-ee! I’m going to have some anchovies on toast! All-ee!” Neither of us heard.
“I wonder,” I reflected, “if you would be willing to repeat a part of that story - just from the telegram on - to a couple of detectives, say on Monday. If you would tell that, and - how the end of your necklace got into the sealskin bag - ”
“My necklace!” she repeated. “But it isn’t mine. I picked it up in the car.”
“All-ee!” Sam again. “I see you down there. I’m making a julep!”
Alison turned and called through her hands. “Coming in a moment, Sam,” she said, and rose. “It must be very late: Sam is home. We would better go back to the house.”
“Don’t,” I begged her. “Anchovies and juleps and Sam will go on for ever, and I have you such a little time. I suppose I am only one of a dozen or so, but - you are the only girl in the world. You know I love you, don’t you, dear?”
Sam was whistling, an irritating bird call, over and over. She pursed her red lips and answered him in kind. It was more than I could endure.
“Sam or no Sam,” I said firmly, “I am going to kiss you!”
But Sam’s voice came strident through the megaphone. “Be good, you two,” he bellowed, “I’ve got the binoculars!” And so, under fire, we walked sedately back to the house. My pulses were throbbing - the little swish of her dress beside me on the grass was pain and ecstasy. I had but to put out my hand to touch her, and I dared not.
Sam, armed with a megaphone and field glasses, bent over the rail and watched us with gleeful malignity.
“Home early, aren’t you?” Alison called, when we reached the steps.
“Led a club when my partner had doubled no-trumps, and she fainted. Damn the heart convention!” he said cheerfully. “The others are not here yet.”
Three hours later I went up to bed. I had not seen Alison alone again. The noise was at its height below, and I glanced down into the garden, still bright in the moonlight. Leaning against a tree, and staring interestedly into the billiard room, was Johnson.
CHAPTER XXIX
IN THE DINING-ROOM
That was Saturday night, two weeks after the wreck. The previous five days had been full of swift-following events - the woman in the house next door, the picture in the theater of a man about to leap from the doomed train, the dinner at the Dallases, and Richey’s discovery that Alison was the girl in the case. In quick succession had come our visit to the Carter place, the finding of the rest of the telegram, my seeing Alison there, and the strange interview with Mrs. Conway. The Cresson trip stood out in my memory for its serio-comic horrors and its one real thrill. Then - the discovery by the police of the sealskin bag and the bit of chain; Hotchkiss producing triumphantly Stuart for Sullivan and his subsequent discomfiture; McKnight at the station with Alison, and later the confession that he was out of the running.
And yet, when I thought it all over, the entire week and its events were two sides of a triangle that was narrowing rapidly to an apex, a point. And the said apex was at that moment in the drive below my window, resting his long legs by sitting on a carriage block, and smoking a pipe that made the night hideous. The sense of the ridiculous is very close to the sense of tragedy. I opened my screen and whistled, and Johnson looked up and grinned. We said nothing. I held up a handful of cigars, he extended his hat, and when I finally went to sleep, it was to a soothing breeze that wafted in salt air and a faint aroma of good tobacco. I was thoroughly tired, but I slept restlessly, dreaming of two detectives with Pittsburg warrants being held up by Hotchkiss at the point of a splint,
