and "Thanks" and "Yes" or "No," stupidly. Then they would come to Tyl and Francis, who was there beside her, and they would congratulate her, weakly, on being alive. They muted their joy in her return in deference to the death in the house. It was as if they were
all saying. Too bad. He's lost his beauty, though of course he's got this one back. Too bad."
Althea would be a legend. The lovely girl with the silver eyes who died so young. She'll never grow old, Tyl thought, but stay young and lively in their memories. They will forgive her for everything. Well, she thought, I forgive her.
Francis was introduced as Mathilda's husband. It didn't seem to matter. It was too hard to explain now. Too involved and fantastic. Let it go.
Francis was taking a good deal on himself. It was he who, when the emotional pressure got too high, knew how to break the fever. When Schmedlinova made a gliding run all the way down to Grandy, wailing like a Russian banshee, it was Francis who made
a cynical aside and steadied Mathilda's jumping heart. It was Francis who sat at her elbow to say the right thing when she couldn't think of what to say at all. She found her eyes meeting his over people's heads. They seemed to have suddenly acquired a full code of signals that went easily between them. It was he who rescued Oliver from the poet who kept quoting, when Mathilda asked him to with her eyebrow. He took slobbering old Mrs. Campbell away before Mathilda screamed. It was his shoulder she found behind her when a sudden wave of fatigue sent her reeling backward. It was Francis who told her quite rudely, at six o'clock, to go upstairs and lie down. It was Francis who brought her a tray, who pulled the comforter over her feet, who dimmed the light. Lying on her bed, weary and numb, she supposed, with dull surprise, that Francis had been acting very like a husband.
When Jane got off the train at seven thirty, Gahagens men were there to meet her. They took her to his office without telling her why. It was obvious that she hadn't known what had happened to Althea. She nearly fainted when they told her. In fact, Gahagen was
alarmed and called the doctor. The girl was badly shocked. It was no fake, either. Gahagen was sorry that his duty had led him to distress her. After all, the poor little kid didn't know anything, had nothing to tell them, sat there twisting her hands, looked dazed and unhappy. Gahagen sent a man to run her up to Grandy's house.
Francis had taken so much on himself that it was only natural for him to meet her at the door and put his arm around her.
What they exchanged under their breaths was not much, because Grandy's voice said, "Is that Jane?" and people leaned around the arch to say that Grandy was asking for her. It was only natural that Francis should keep his arm around her and lead her to Grandy's
throne.
It was a lovely scene. The yellow-haired child in the powder-blue suit with the little white collar kneeling there. Dear old Grandy bent over her so tenderly. And that tall, good-looking Howard man, standing there with Jane's little blue cap in his hand, that he'd picked up when it fell. The long room was quiet.
"I know," Grandy said. "I know, child. I know." His voice was soft and sympathetic, and it didn't change as it went on to ask, "What were you doing in the garden last night with Francis?"
Jane cut a sob or two. Francis, standing by, looked perfectly blank. He felt himself to be within the range of Grandy's eyes, although those eyes were kept on Jane. He struggled for blankness.
Jane took down the handkerchief, revealed her tousled face, all lumpy with weeping. "Oh, Mr. Grandison, I didn't know you knew. I'm sorry."
"Sorry about what, dear?" They were speaking low. The people in the room couldn't hear what they were saying. It all went for part of the tender little scene.
"He only had an hour," wept Jane. "It wasn't anybody's fault. I told him he shouldn't have come and tried to see me, but, seeing that he had, I couldn't just tell him to go away. So I thought it wouldn't really. . . disturb you.”
Grandy said, "You re telling me it wasn't Francis?"
"Oh, no," said Jane. "Of course it wasn't. It was a—a boy I know. I'll never do it again, sir. I'm so sorry."
Grandy said, "But, my dear, I was not complaining. I was curious, y'know. Next time bring him indoors, child. We are not ogres."
Jane began to cry again, as if such kindness were too much to bear.
Francis said, "What's this about? Something to do with me?"
"Tyl thought she . . . saw you," Grandy said, with a curious little break of hesitation and doubt. His eyes turned. Not his head.
"Tyl did?" said Francis. He kept his face blank, turned his eyes, not his head. Too bad. Tough on Mathilda, but the kid would have to put up with this. It looked as if Jane had really fooled him. But at any rate, Tyl's evidence on what she knew or saw was tending
to seem more and more unreliable.
Jane was getting to her feet. Francis took her arm. He said kindly, with just a trace of absent-mindedness, "Hadn't you better come along upstairs and wash your face or something?"
In her room they faced each other. "Well?"
She said, "I got it."
"What we thought?"
"Yes." She told him rapidly and rather mechanically. "I listened to it myself. Told them a wild story about a bet. I got a girl there to listen with me, as a witness. Got it cold, and it's what we want. The Phantom Chef said 'Burn tenderly' only once in that record, and he
said it at ten thirty-five."
"Fifteen minutes." Francis struck his palm with his other fist.
"Yes" said Jane. There was no triumph.
"And Rosaleen hanging since the fuse blew at ten-twenty. That's proof."
"Yes," said Jane.
"Proof!" Francis was bitter and old again. "Jane, he's the devil. How can we fight the devil? That tongue of his, the power of it! He molds the thoughts in people's heads with his tongue, Jane. Their brains melt. He makes them think what he wants them to think.
They're all his puppets. And he's the great director. Look at him now. He's killed twice, committed two murders, and everybody is down there weeping for him."
"Did he . . . kill Althea too?"
"Of course he killed Althea!" swore Francis.
"I couldn't tell Gahagen tins alone, but now—"
"Oh, yes, we will now take our nice neat proof to the police," said Francis. "What proof?"
"The time, the radio, the record—all of it. . . . Fran, what's the matter?"
"I can swear Althea told me what she heard on the radio and when she heard it. But you realize . . . Althea isn't here any more."
"You mean we can't—oh, Fran—can't prove it?"
"If I had another witness—"
"Lie then," said Jane fiercely. "IH say I heard her tell you."
"When?"
"Any time you say*
"You were in the house with them."
"Then you'll have to say she told you some other time."
"When?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Not you, Jane. Not you, anyhow. It's too dangerous. Maybe you fooled them. All the more reason to keep you out of it now."
"But I'm not out. Why is it any more dangerous?"
"For God's sake, anything's dangerous, anything near him! It's dangerous for us to stand here and talk. It's dangerous to look sidewise at him. I stuck my neck out this morning. Maybe he'll chop my head off before dawn."