hful. "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 he