"Anything is possible in a case like this. But you have nothing to fear.

Now, will you tell me--"

"Do you think I did it?"

"I know that you did not. But I think you know something about it."

"It would cast no light on the mystery. He was shot from that grove on a pitch dark night, and that is all there is to it."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"Very well. I had put out my light--upstairs--and, as I was nervous, I looked out of the window to see if Dave was coming. I so longed to have him come--and go! Then I happened to glance in the direction of the grove, and I saw some one sneaking about there--"

"Yes!" He half rose, his eyes expanding, his nostrils dilating. "Go on.

Go on."

"I told you I was nervous--wrought up from that dreadful scene at the club. I just felt like an adventure! I slipped down stairs and out of the house by the kitchen door--Frieda takes the key of the back hall door on Sat.u.r.day nights--thinking I would watch the burglar; of course that was what I thought he must be; and I knew that Dave would be along in a minute--"

"How long was this after he telephoned? It would take him some time to walk from c.u.mmack's; and he didn't leave at once--"

"Oh, quite a while after. I was sure then that he would be along in a minute or two. Well--it may seem incredible to you, but I really felt as if excitement of that dangerous sort would be a relief."

"I understand perfectly." Rush spoke with the fatuousness of man who believes that love and complete comprehension of the object beloved are natural corollaries. "But--but that is not the sort of story that goes down with a jury of small farmers and trades-people. They don't know much about your sort of nerves. But go on."

"Well, I managed to get into the grove without being either seen or heard by that man. I am sure of that. He moved round a good deal, and I thought he was feeling about for some point from which he could make a dart for the house. Then I heard Dave in Dawbarn Street, singing. Then I saw him under the lamp-post. After that it all happened so quickly I can hardly recall it clearly enough to describe. The man near me crouched. I can't tell you what I thought then--if I knew he was going to shoot--or why I didn't cry out. Almost before I had time to think at all, he fired, and Dave went down."

"But what about that other bullet? Are you sure there was no one else in the grove?"

"There may have been a dozen. I heard some one running afterwards; there may have been more than one."

"Did you have a pistol?" He spoke very softly. "Don't be afraid to tell me. It might easily have gone off accidentally--or something deeper than your consciousness may have telegraphed an imperious message to your hand."

But Mrs. Balfame, like all artificial people, was intensely secretive, and only delivered herself of the unvarnished truth when it served her purpose best. She gave a little feminine shudder. "I never kept a pistol in the house. If I had, it would have been empty--just something to flourish at a burglar."

"Ah--yes. I was going to say that I was glad of that, but I don't know that it matters. If you had taken a revolver out that night, loaded or otherwise, and confessed to it, you hardly could have escaped arrest by this time, even if it were a .38. And if you confessed to going out into the dark to stalk a man without one--that would make your adventure look foolhardy and purposeless--"

It was evident that he was thinking aloud. She interrupted him sharply:

"But you believe me?"

"I believe every word you say. The more differently you act from other women, the more natural you seem to me. But I think you were dead right in suppressing the episode. It leads nowhere and would incriminate you."

"It may come out yet. That is why I sent for you, not because I was afraid of those reporters. Frieda was on the backstairs that night when I came in. I thought I heard a sound and called out. I told Anna that night and she questioned Frieda indirectly and was satisfied that she had heard nothing, for although she had come home early with a toothache, she was suffering so intensely that she wouldn't have heard if the shot had been fired under her window. So I dismissed such misgivings as I had from my mind. But just after those reporters left she came up to my room and told me that she saw me come in, and tried to blackmail me for five hundred dollars. I soon made her admit that she had not seen me; but she heard me, no doubt of that. I explained logically why I was there--after a drink of water, and that I called out to her because I thought I heard some one try the door--but if those reporters get hold of her--"

His face looked very grim. "That is bad, bad. By the way, why didn't you run to Balfame? That would seem the natural thing--"

"I was suddenly horribly afraid. I think I knew he was dead and I didn't want to go near _that_. I ran like a dog back to its kennel."

"It was a feminine enough thing to do." For the first time he smiled, and his voice, which had insensibly grown inquisitorial, softened once more. "It was a dreadful position to find oneself in and no mistake.

Your instinct was right. If you had been found bending over him--still, as you had no weapon--"

"I think on the whole it would have been better to have gone to him. Of course that is what I should have done if I had loved him. As it was, I ran as far from him as I could get--"

"Well, don't let us waste time discussing the ought to have beens.

Unless some one can prove that you were out that night, the whole incident must be suppressed. If you are arrested on any trumped up charge--and the district attorney is keener than the reporters--you must stick to your story. By the way, why didn't you tell the reporters that Frieda was in the house about the time the shot was fired?"

"I had forgotten. The house has been full of people; the neighbourhood has lived here; I have noticed her no more than if she were as wooden as she looks."

"Do you think she did it?"

"I wish I could. But she would not have had time to get into the house before I did. And the footsteps were running toward the lane at the back of the grounds."

"She is one of the swiftest dancers down in that hall where she goes with her crowd every Sat.u.r.day night. I have been doing a little sleuthing on my own account, but I can't connect her up with Balfame."

"He wouldn't have looked at her."

"You never can tell. A man will often look quite hard at whatever happens to be handy. But she doesn't appear to have any sweetheart, although she's been in the country for four years. She is intimate in the home of Old Dutch and goes about with young Conrad, but he is engaged to some one else. All the boys like to dance with her. She left the hall suddenly and ran home--ostensibly wild with a toothache. If she hid in the grove to kill Balfame she could have got into the house before you did. What was she doing on the stair, anyway?"

"I didn't ask her."

"She may have been too out of breath to answer you. Or too wary. Those other footsteps--they may have been those of an accomplice; the man who fired the other pistol."

"But I would have seen her running ahead of me."

"Not necessarily. It was very dark. Your mind was stunned. You may have hesitated longer than you know before making for the house. One is liable to powerful inhibitions in great crises. Where is the girl? I think I'll have her in."

He walked the floor nervously while Mrs. Balfame went out to the kitchen. Frieda was sitting by the stove knitting. Commanded to come to the parlour, her little eyes almost closed, but she followed Mrs.

Balfame and confronted Rush, who stood in the middle of the room looking tall and formidable.

"I am Mrs. Balfame's lawyer," he said without preamble. "She sent for me because you tried to blackmail her. What were you doing on the stairs when you heard Mrs. Balfame in the kitchen? You left the dance hall sometime before eight, and that could not have been more than five minutes past."

Frieda pressed her big lips together in a hard line.

"Oh, you won't speak. Well, if you don't explain to me, you will to the Grand Jury to-morrow. Or I shall get out a warrant to-night for your arrest as the murderer of David Balfame."

"Gott!" The girl's face was almost purple. She raised her knitting needles with a threatening gesture that was almost dramatic. "I did not do it. She has done it."

"What were you doing on the stairs?"

"I would heat water for my tooth."

"Cold water is the thing for an ulcerated tooth."

"I never have the toothache like that already. I am in my room many minutes before I think I go down. Then, when I am on the stairs I hear Mrs. Balfame come in."

"She has explained what you heard."

"No, she have not. I think so when we have talked this evening, but not now. She is--was, I mean, all out of her breath."