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Nan didn't scream. Nan leaned on both arms; her dark eyes were bewildered. "Mr. Copeland?" she said feebly.

Copeland said, "Did Dick Bartee know Emily was in that hospital? Did you tell him?"

Nan said, "But he wouldn't—"

The door opened once more. Outside, somewhere in the house, a woman was weeping, loud, shuddering sobs. Blanche? Bart closed the door behind himself, shutting oflE the sound. He looked at Johnny and said tensely, "The doctor can't get a reaction. Sorry—"

"Now, you've killed Dorothy," Johnny shouted. "You lousy murderer!"

"I! Killed Dorothy! Look herel"

Nan said, "Johnny, why do you say Dick's a murderer?"

"Because that's what he is," said Johnny.

'Dorothy? How?" Dick said. "But she must have got in, locked the door. I was in the bathroom. You think I hung up Dorothy in the closet and then calmly went to wash my face I You're crazy 1 She did it to herself. Must havel"

"Suicide?" said Bart sharply. "Why would she do that?"

Dick mopped his face. "How do I know? Oh, Lord, poor Dorothy. The disgrace, maybe. Her father? Her mother . . . ?"

Nan said slowly, "But Dotty didn't . . . feel disgraced." Her dark eyes were open very wide. She stared at Dick."

Johnny said, "Are you waking up? It was the money."

"What money?" Dick exploded. "Now, hsten and I'll have to be ungentlemanly because this man is obsessed. I happen to know Dorothy—thought about me—too much. Nevertheless, I married Nan."

"A broken heart?" said Bart Bartee and his voice was thin with contempt and disbelief.

Nan said, "But Dorothy—Dorothy's been in love with Johnny these three years gone, she said."

"Ah, httle Nan," said Dick Bartee, with pity. "So innocent . . . What Dorothy said."

"He wants the money," shouted Johnny. "Can't you get that into your iimocent little head. He has always wanted the money and nothing but the money—unless it was Dorothy."

Dick Bartee's eyes flashed. "And how will this get me any money?"

"I don't know," said Johnny to himself.

Nan sat straighter. "No," she said primly. "No, it isn't the money and I've proved it. I didn't tell Dick what Dorothy said. Dorothy said she didn't want the money, I could have it. But I thought if he married me, just me, then that would prove."

She looked around at the stony faces and her chin began to shake. "Prove . . ." Her voice went up. "Provel" She looked as if she'd fly to pieces. "Dotty?"

Charles Copeland went to her, sat down beside her, held her.

Marshall said, "But it's incredible! That he could do such a thing I Hang a giil! Herel Nowl"

"Preposterous," said Dick. "Whatever happened to poor Dorothy, you will never prove that I had anythiag to do with it." ,

"You don't give up yet?" said Johnny softly.

"Give up? Give up what! What do )'ou think you can do to me? Where is your proof?" The splendid animal was fierce and brave.

Johnny stepped backwards, took the door knob, opened the door to the hall.

"Here I am," said Dorothy Padgett in a tortured voice that had to come from a mangled throat.

Something behind Dick Bartee's eyes gave up—and Johnny saw it. But Dick's body sat down and crossed its legs.

"He told me how long it took to kill the others," croaked Dorothy. "Emily!" Her face was no longer that terrible color but it was teiTible.

Johnny had her cold fingers in his own. "All right, weVe got him," he said in a shaking voice. "Will somebody keep me from killing him, here and now, before the law comes?"

Johnny could feel how Dorothy was trembling. Dorothy's fingers clutched his and she said hoarsely, yet clearly, "I would hke to be the one to tell him."

"Yes," said Johnny.

". . . that n^ Uncle CHnton McCauley's eyes are htOwn/' said the blue-eyed girl.,.

Johnny watched Dick's eyes with bitter pleasure.

Bart said, "You bit, Dick. You never paid any attention. You didn't even remember the baby's eyes. Sims rattled you."

Dick rose. "McCauley is dead," he said stiffly.

"What gave you that idea?" said Charles Copeland. "And what's the difference! Nans his daughter. The money has nothing to do with Dorothy."

"I?" Nan said.

"You had manied the money," Johnny said to Dick Bartee, "all cosy. You were home safe. You bet you were. Not now."

From Nathaniel's front windows they could all tell that a car was coming in.

"There's the law, thank God," gasped Copeland.

"Dick?" said Nan. "You didn't? It isn't true?"

Dick Bartee didn't even look at her. "Sorry to skip out on my honeymoon," he said jauntily, "but I don't think I'll wait for the law."

He turned to the side window. He wagged his hips and

crashed the glass out. He put one knee on the sill and his head and shoulders through before anyone could move.

Nan screamed. "No, Dick, not Don't leave mel I believe in youl I do! I know it isn't truel"

She was away from Copeland, oflF the bed, crawUng and scrambling after her dream. She caught at Dick's leg. He lifted it to kick her ojff. But Nan had it embraced, clutched fiercely. She was on her knees and she fainted backward. Dick had no balance, now. His other knee slipped oJBF the sill. His body came in and downward. Upon the jagged shard, left in the lower sash, his naked throat came dov^ni.

Four days later, Johnny pulled his car up at the prison, got out and helped the girls out.

Nan whimpered. "I'm afraid."

"Don't be afraid," Johnny said mechanically.

Nan was so small, so forlorn. Although she was better. Johnny and Copeland had got Nan away from the law, (although there would be ordeals, inquiries, suspicion of manslaughter—before they could get her altogether free.) Dick Bartee was dead and gone. So they'd got Nan back north, and into the strong hands of Johnny's mother. Barbara Sims had pumped courage into her, helped her, got her in some measure, together again.

Now, of course, this was going to be an ordeal.

Johnny helped her to walk. Dorothy walked by herself. It was Dorothy who had stayed behind, two days, in Hestia and stood up to all the questioning.

Father Klein welcomed them. "He is waiting, my dear. He has been waiting for this a very long time."

McCauIey was better. The resolution of the dilemma had put him back together again, rather swiftly. He'd be out on parole soon.

"We won't go in," said Johrmy. "You go, Nan."

"No, Johnny, Dotty, please? Come with me?" Nan was shivering.

"He wants to see all three of you," the chaplain said.

The frail little man was waiting in the chaplain's office, white head bent down.

McCauley said, "I am a little afraid. Is it really she?"

Nan's face began to change. "Don't be afraid," she said. "Father?"

"This is your daughter, sir. And this is her cousin, Dorothy," Johnny spoke up. He had to be very cheerful, loud, and hearty. Somebody had to be.

"Thank you for all you have done," McCauley's brovvn eyes sent up to him a look of piercing gratitude.

"Thank Dorothy, too."

"I do thank Dorothy."

Dorothy said, w^ith that sturdy sweetness, "Ym. glad to meet you at last, Uncle CHnton."

"That's right," he mused. "You are Essie McCauley and Gordon O'Hara's child."

Nan's face had color. "I am Polly McCauley," she said shyly.

The man looked at her directly for the first time. "Oh, my poor Polly McCauley. My dear little one." The heart seemed to rush out of the frail body toward her. "What a terrible bad time you must have hadl"

Nan was very still. Everyone was still.

Then Nan said, "You've had the bad time. Oh, tell me.'' She sat down. She put out her hands. "What shall I call you? Father? Dad? ITL take care of you now, and .yi?ull help me?"

She had said the exact right thing. McCauley wept for joy.

Johnny touched Dorothy's arm. They slipped away. They went out into the air. They stpod, leaning against a little parapet. They wept for McCauley, and neither let the other see.

After a while Dorothy sighed, "I'm glad I am Miss O'Hara-Padgett. I thought I might have to . . ."