Part 4

It was the first time he had spoken. For an instant the woman hesitated, regarding him thoughtfully, and then without resentment pulled the door open. She came toward him swiftly, and he was conscious of the rustle of silk and the stirring of perfumes. At the open door she cast a frown of disapproval and then, with her face close to his, spoke hurriedly in a whisper.

“A man brought a girl here to lunch,” she said; “they’ve been here before. The girl claims the man told her he was going to marry her. Last night she found out he has a wife already, and she came here to-day meaning to make trouble. She brought a gun. They were in the room at the far end of the hall. George, the water, heard the two shots and ran down here to get me. No one else heard. These rooms are fixed to keep out noise, and the piano was going. We broke in and found them on the floor. The man was shot through the shoulder, the girl through the body. His story is that after she fired, in trying to get the gun from her, she shot herself-by accident. That’s right, I guess. But the girl says they came here to die together--what the newspaper call a ‘suicide pact’--because they couldn’t marry, and that he first shot her, intending to kill her and then himself. That’s silly. She framed it to get him. She missed him with the gun, so now she’s trying to get him with this murder charge. I know her. If she’d been sober she wouldn’t have shot him; she’d have blackmailed him. She’s that sort. I know her, and----”

With an exclamation the district attorney broke in upon her. “And the man,” he demanded eagerly; “was it HE killed Banf?”

In amazement the woman stared. “Certainly NOT!” she said.

“Then what HAS this to do with Banf?”

“Nothing!” Her tone was annoyed, reproachful. “That was only to bring you here.”

His disappointment was so keen that it threatened to exhibit itself in anger. Recognizing this, before he spoke Wharton forced himself to pause. Then he repeated her words quietly.

“Bring me here?” he asked. “Why?”

The woman exclaimed impatiently: “So you could beat the police to it,” she whispered. “So you could HUSH IT UP!”

The surprised laugh of the man was quite real. It bore no resentment or pose. He was genuinely amused. Then the dignity of his office, tricked and insulted, demanded to be heard. He stared at her coldly; his indignation was apparent.

“You have done extremely ill,” he told her. “You know perfectly well you had no right to bring me up here; to drag me into a row in your road-house. ‘Hush it up!’” he exclaimed hotly. This time his laugh was contemptuous and threatening. “I’ll show you how I’ll hush it up!” He moved quickly to the open window.

“Stop!” commanded the woman. “You can’t do that!” She ran to the door.

Again he was conscious of the rustle of silk, of the stirring of perfumes.

He heard the key turn in the lock. It had Come. It was a frame-up. There would be a scandal. And to save himself from it they would force him to “hush up” this other one. But, as to the outcome, in no way was he concerned. Through the window, standing directly below it, he had seen Nolan. In the sunlit yard the chauffeur, his cap on the back of his head, his cigarette drooping from his lips, was tossing the remnants of a sandwich to a circle of excited hens. He presented a picture of bored indolence, of innocent preoccupation. It was almost too well done.

Assured of a witness for the defense, he greeted the woman with a smile. “Why can’t I do it?” he taunted.

She ran close to him and laid her hands on his arm. Her eyes were fixed steadily on his. “Because,” she whispered, “the man who shot that girl-is your brother-in-law, Ham Cutler!”

For what seemed a long time Wharton stood looking down into the eyes of the woman, and the eyes never faltered. Later he recalled that in the sudden silence many noises disturbed the lazy hush of the Indian-summer afternoon: the rush of a motor-car on the Boston Road, the tinkle of the piano and the voice of the youth with the drugged eyes singing, “And you’ll wear a simple gingham gown,” from the yard below the cluck-cluck of the chickens and the cooing of pigeons.

His first thought was of his sister and of her children, and of what this bomb, hurled from the clouds, would mean to her. He thought of Cutler, at the height of his power and usefulness, by this one disreputable act dragged into the mire, of what disaster it might bring to the party, to himself.

If, as the woman invited, he helped to “hush it up,” and Tammany learned the truth, it would make short work of him. It would say, for the murderer of Banf he had one law and for the rich brother-in-law, who had tried to kill the girl he deceived, another. But before he gave voice to his thoughts he recognized them as springing only from panic. They were of a part with the acts of men driven by sudden fear, and of which acts in their sane moments they would be incapable.

The shock of the woman’s words had unsettled his traditions. Not only was he condemning a man unheard, but a man who, though he might dislike him, he had for years, for his private virtues, trusted and admired. The panic passed and with a confident smile he shook his head.

“I don’t believe you,” he said quietly.

The manner of the woman was equally calm, equally assured.

“Will you see her?” she asked.

“I’d rather see my brother-in-law,” he answered

The woman handed him a card.

“Doctor Muir took him to his private hospital,” she said. “I loaned them my car because it’s a limousine. The address is on that card. But,” she added, “both your brother and Sammy--that’s Sam Muir, the doctor--asked you wouldn’t use the telephone; they’re afraid of a leak.”

Apparently Wharton did not hear her. As though it were “Exhibit A,” presented in evidence by the defense, he was studying the card she had given him. He stuck it in his pocket.

“I’ll go to him at once,” he said.