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 a