'Will you tell me the truth about it?'
'Yes,' he promised.
'What—' She broke off. 'What will they do to him, Ned?'
'Probably not a great deal. His age and prominence and so on will help him. The chances are they'll convict him of manslaughter and then set the sentence aside or suspend it.'
'Do you think it was an accident?'
Ned Beaumont shook his head. His eyes were cold. He said bluntly: 'I think he got mad at the thought of his son interfering with his chances of being re-elected and hit him.'
She did not protest. She was twining her fingers together. When she asked her next question it was with difficulty. 'Was—was he going to—to shoot Paul?'
'He was. He could get away with the grand-old-man-avenging-the-death-the-law-couldn't-avenge line. He knew Paul wasn't going to stay dummied up if he was arrested. Paul was doing it, just as he was supporting your father for re-election, because he wanted you. He couldn't get you by pretending he'd killed your brother. He didn't care what anybody else thought, but he didn't know you thought he had and he would have cleared himself in a second if he had.'
She nodded miserably. 'I hated him,' she said, 'and I wronged him and I still hate him.' She sobbed. 'Why is that, Ned?'
He made an impatient gesture with one hand. 'Don't ask me riddles.'
'And you,' she said, 'tricked me and made a fool of me and brought this on me and I don't hate you.'
'More riddles,' he said.
'How long, Ned,' she asked, 'how long have you known—known about Father?'
'I don't know. It's been in the back of my head for a long time. That was about the only thing that'd fit in with Paul's foolishness. If he'd killed Taylor he'd've let me know before this. There was no reason why he should hide that from me. There was a reason why he'd hide your father's crimes from me. He knew I didn't like your father. I'd made that plain enough. He didn't think he could trust me not to knife your father. He knew I wouldn't knife him. So, when I'd told him I was going to clear up the killing regardless of what he said, he gave me that phony confession to stop me.'
She asked: 'Why didn't you like Father?'
'Because,' he said hotly, 'I don't like pimps.'
Her face became red, her eyes abashed. She asked in a dry constricted voice: 'And you don't like me because—?'
He did not say anything.
She bit her lip and cried: 'Answer me!'
'You're all right,' he said, 'only you're not all right for Paul, not the way you've been playing him. Neither of you were anything but poison for him. I tried to tell him that. I tried to tell him you both considered him a lower form of animal life and fair game for any kind of treatment. I tried to tell him your father was a man all his life used to winning without much trouble and that in a hole he'd either lose his head or turn wolf. Well, he was in love with you, so—' He snapped his teeth together and walked over to the piano.
'You despise me,' she said in a low hard voice. 'You think I'm a whore.'
'I don't despise you,' he said irritably, not turning to face her. 'Whatever you've done you've paid for and been paid for and that goes for all of us.'
There was silence between them then until she said: 'Now you and Paul will be friends again.'
He turned from the piano with a movement as if he were about to shake himself and looked at the watch on his wrist. 'I'll have to say good-by now.'
A startled light came into her eyes. 'You're not going away?'
He nodded. 'I can catch the four-thirty.'
'You're not going away for good?'
'If I can dodge being brought back for some of these trials and I don't think that'll be so hard.'
She held her hands out impulsively. 'Take me with you.'
He blinked at her. 'Do you really want to go or are you just being hysterical?' he asked. Her face was crimson by then. Before she could speak he said: 'It doesn't make any difference. I'll take you if you want to go.' He frowned. 'But all this'—he waved a hand to indicate the house— 'who'll take care of that?'
She said bitterly: 'I don't care—our creditors.'
'There's another thing you ought to think about,' he said slowly. 'Everybody's going to say you deserted your father as soon as he got in trouble.'
'I am deserting him,' she said, 'and I want people to say that. I don't care what they say—if you'll take me away.' She sobbed. 'If—I wouldn't if only he hadn't gone away and left him lying there alone in that dark street.'
Ned Beaumont said brusquely: 'Never mind that now. If you're going get packed. Only what you can get in a couple of bags. We can send for the other stuff later, maybe.'
She uttered a high-pitched unnatural laugh and ran out of the room. He lit a cigar, sat down at the piano, and played softly until she returned. She had put on a black hat and black coat and was carrying two traveling- bags.
They rode in a taxicab to his rooms. For most of the ride they were silent. Once she said suddenly: 'In that dream—I didn't tell you—the key was glass and shattered in our hands just as we got the door open, because the lock was stiff and we had to force it.'
He looked sidewise at her and asked: 'Well?'
She shivered. 'We couldn't lock the snakes in and they came out all over us and I woke up screaming.'
'That was only a dream,' he said. 'Forget it.' He smiled without merriment. 'You threw my trout back—in the dream.'
The taxicab stopped in front of his house. They went up to his rooms. She offered to help him pack, but he said: 'No, I can do it. Sit down and rest. We've got an hour before the train leaves.'
She sat in one of the red chairs. 'Where are you—we going?' she asked timidly.
'New York, first anyhow.'
He had one bag packed when the door-bell rang. 'You'd better go into the bedroom,' he told her and carried her bags in there. He shut the connecting door when he came out.
He went to the outer door and opened it.
Paul Madvig said: 'I came to tell you you were right and I know it now.'
'You didn't come last night.'
'No, I didn't know it then. I got home right after you left.'
Ned Beaumont nodded. 'Come in,' he said, stepping out of the doorway.
Madvig went into the living-room. He looked immediately at the bags, but let his glance roam around the room for a while before asking: 'Going away?'
'Yes.'
Madvig sat in the chair Janet Henry had occupied. His age showed in his face and he sat down wearily.
'How's Opal?' Ned Beaumont asked.
'She's all right, poor kid. She'll be all right now.'
'You did it to her.'
'I know, Ned. Jesus, I know it!' Madvig stretched his legs out and looked at his shoes. 'I hope you don't think I'm feeling proud of myself.' After a pause Madvig added: 'I think—I know Opal'd like to see you before you go.'
'You'll have to say good-by to her for me and to Mom too. I'm leaving on the four-thirty.'
Madvig raised blue eyes clouded by anguish. 'You're right, of course, Ned,' he said huskily, 'but—well— Christ knows you're right!' He looked down at his shoes again.
Ned Beaumont asked: 'What are you going to do with your not quite faithful henchmen? Kick them back in line? Or have they kicked themselves back?'
