m, because he and Mr.
Gilbert used to be good friends, and he and Worth aren't. I sassed him,
and he got so mad that just as he was leaving, he hollered at me that I
better ask Worth Gilbert where he was at the hour his father was shot.
Now, what do you know about that? That man is spreading stories. A
doctor can set them going. He's making his messy old calls on people all
day, and they, poor fish-hounds, believe everything he says. Though
mother didn't. After he was gone, she just lay there in her bed and said
over and over that it was a lie, a foolish, dangerous lie! Poor mumsie,
she's so nervous that when the grocer's truck had a blow-out down in the
drive, she nearly went into hysterics--cried and carried on, something
about it's being 'the shot.' I suppose she meant the one when Mr.
Gilbert killed himself. Wasn't that queer? Any loud noise of the sort
sets her off that way. She lies and listens, and listens and mutters to
herself. It scares me." She closed with, "Please don't break your
promise to be here through this infernal Bloss. Fes."

"Good advice, that last," I said slowly, as I laid the letter on the
table, keeping a hand on it. "You'll do that, won't you, Barbara?"

"I had intended to. I was given leave from this afternoon.
But--well--I'd thought it over, and almost made up my mind to go back to
my desk."

Barbara Wallace uncertain, halting between two courses of action! What
did it mean?

"See here, Barbara; this isn't a time for Worth Gilbert's friends to
slacken on him."

"I hadn't slackened," she said very low. And left it for me to remember
that Worth apparently had.

"Then you're needed at Santa Ysobel," I urged.

"But you're going, aren't you, Mr. Boyne?"

"Yes. As soon as I can get off. That doesn't keep you from being needed.
Worth's one of the most efficiently impossible young men I ever tried to
handle. Maybe he's not any fuller of shocks than any other live wire,
but he sure does manage to plant them where they'll do the most harm.
Cummings, Dykeman--and this Dr. Bowman down there; active enemies."

"They can't hurt Worth Gilbert--all of them together!"

"Wait a minute. I'm going to Santa Ysobel to find the murderer of Thomas
Gilbert. That means a stirring to the depths of that little town. This
underneath-the-surface combustion will get poked into a flame--she's
going to burst out, and somebody's going to get burned. We don't want
that to be Worth, Barbara."

"No. But what can I