beard loon . . I' Sit down. Miss Dorothy. I'll fetch another chair."
"Don't bother," said Johnny. "I'd as soon stand for what I've got to say." Dick Bartee put his head back sharply. Nan didn't even seem to hear.
"I am the 'graybeard loon/ I guess," said Johnny. "Something has to be told, right now." He felt tense and determined. "Emily Padgett told me a secret."
''What's he saying?" the old lady mumbled. "What are you saying, young man?"
"You must listen to me carefully,'' Johnny said to her. "Chnton McCauley and his wife Christy had a baby girl."
"Yes," said the old lady. "Little girl. Mary was her name. Mary Christine."
"Nan is that baby girl."
Bart who had been leaning on the wall bent forward in surprise. Blanche bridled.
"Who?" said the old lady.
"This girl," said Johnny loudly and distinctly. "Nan is your great-granddaughter. Her real name is Mary McCauley."
The pair in the black leather comer had not moved at all.
''The man in prison is your father, Nan," Johnny said, trying for a gentle voice. "He didn't kill your mother. He beheves that Di^k did. Do you understand?"
"I know," said Nan dreamily. She leaned backward and Dick's torso came forward, and they were close.
"We figured that out this afternoon," Dick said, amiably. "It's the only explanation. Why Aunt Emily flew home, why Sims has been acting this w'ay. As soon as I^found out he had been to see McCauley, it all came to me." He kissed Nan's hair. "Well?" he inquired.
Johnny was absolutely stunned.
Dorothy said, "Nan, that is why Aimt Emily flew back. She had kept this secret since—since you were three. Then you gave her Dick's name, of all names, on the telephone. Do you understand?"
"Of course, I do," said Nan. Her face kept the wondering glow. "I felt it, anyhow. I could tell that I belonged here."
Bart said briskly, "Now, you are sm:e of this, Sims? You aren't inventing?"
"I am not inventing," Johnny said wearily. "Ask Charles
Copeland, in San Francisco. Emily's lawyer. Or ask Clinton McCauley, who is alive, who is suffering . . ,"
Nan's face had not changed. It did not change now. (She is lost, thought Johnny with a terrible pang. Lost to Emily, who trusted me. Lost to McCauley who trusted me, too.)
The old lady said, "Christy's little girl? Why then, she is my daughter's daughter's daughter 1" She began to beam, pleased as punch. "Why, my dearie!"
"Great-grandmama?" said Nan shyly. "And I suppose my uncle Bart?"
Bart said, "Dick, how long have you known this?''
"I guessed it, this afternoon," Dick said.
Nan leaned back against him. "Now we understand . . .''
"Understand what?" said Dorothy bluntly.
"Why it was that we fell in love, so suddenly, so—so deeply." Nan looked shyly aglow. "It was because we had known each other already—years ago. Dick knew me when I was only three and I—I adored him. There was an old groove in our hearts." (Johnny felt sick!) "We aren't related at all," said Nan, "but we belong! And we sensed that."
Dick's arm came around her waist.
Johnny felt sick, heart and soul. He knew now that he had been fighting with the wrong weapons. He had been using time to track down trifles—alibis and pins. Evidence, he had been after. Reasonable proof. But Dick Bartee had used his time to deal with more potent things. Dick had got into Nan's heart and mind—and got there first. Dick had seen to the climate there. Dick had taken the edge off this news. Transformed it. Put it inside the dream.
Stupid, stupid, Johnny accused himself. The very idea that Dick was a killer—Dick had taken all the sting out of that. Nan had been soothed and satisfied. And a tenuous collection of wispy facts—Dick's car rumored to have been on the Upper Road, Dick fooling a girl in tlie dark, a man reading a book with his hghts on. Nothing there with any power.
God help me, thought Johnny, if I am relying on reason.
But he must reach her. "Your own living father thinks Dick killed your mother," he said flatly. "Your father is alive, Nan. Won't you go to see him?"
"Of course," she said. "Some day."
^'Some dayl" Dorothy exploded. "What's the matter with you?"
"But I'm being married tomorrow," Nan said patiently.
Johnny said, "You can't be married tomorrow, Nan. Listen to me. Your father has loved you, all the years of your life ..." ^
"I don't remember him," she said. "I've never seen him, since I can remember . . ."
"—loved you enough, never to see you since you can remember. Sacrificed . . ."
"But Dick didn't kill Christy," Nan said earnestly. "And 1 didn't know my father was in prison. It's not my fault that I never knew, is it? I don't know^ whether he killed my mother. He says he didn't. I'm—I'm sorry. But I do know that Dick didn't do it and Dick loves me—whatever, wherever my father is."
"Your father is sick over you," cried Johnny. "In anguish. Nan."
Her dark eyes looked into his. They were honest, according to her lights. "But he doesn't need to be in such anguish," she explained. "Don't you see? I'm sorry he has made himself sick and for what he thinks, but that isn't Dick's or my fault.
The whole r©om was listening, except possibly, the old lady who was staring at' Nan and moving her Ups, soundlessly.
Finally, Dorothy said, "Nan, don't you care?"
"I only care for the truth," Naij said, flinging up her head.
"The truth is," said Johnny calmly, "your father is right."
Now Dick put Nan to one side and rose from the chair. "Say that once more."
"Gladly," said Johimy. "McCauley is right. You killed Christy."
Dick's muscles prepared to deUver a blow.
Bart said, "Just a minute. None of that." He was between them. "Why," he demanded of Johnny, "do you say so?"
"For one thing," said Johnny, "he faked the alibi with Blanche. I can prove that. He wasn't with her at midnight."
"So I must have been here, murdering Christy?" said Dick, sounding dangerous. "Because you would hke to think so?" Dick loomed.
Nan jumped up. "Dick, pleasel Johnny, please!" She
clasped her hands together. ^'Johnny, if you will just listen and believe me. No matter what happens, ever—I would never, never marry you."
Johnny looked at her. She was so young. If she was just a tinge pleased, he would try to forgive her. "I know that," he said solemnly.
Dick used both hands to put Nan gently back upon the leather stool. Bart had paid no attention to her. "Anything else, that makes you think Dick killed Christy?"
"The fact that he would have liked to see me blown up this morning," said Johnny.
Dick Bartee said, "And been blown up, too? You don't seem to understand what is going on at all, Sims. I'm being married tomorrow. I then, take my bride on our honeymoon. I've got more important things to do than argue with you about an old story, seventeen years behind us." He loomed, big, dangerous, clever. "Do you really think we will put ofiF our wedding?" he scoffed. "Because you keep insisting that I am some kind of villain? I am one kind of villain in your eyes, Sims. I stole your girl! And that is the bottom and the essence of what ails you."
"Oh, Johnny, you mustn't be so wicked!" wailed Nan. She believed it.
The old lady stirred. "Blanche, go, please get Christy's picture?"
Blanche got up, dazed, "Mother, hadn't I better take you away . . . ?"
"No, no," said the old lady, "not a bit of it. I want the child to see her mother's picture."
"Oh yes, please," breathed Nan. "Great-grandmother?"
Bart had his hand on Johnny's sleeve. He said, "I don't see that you've proved anything, Sims."
"There's been enough trouble," Blanche said pathetically. She went out into the hall.