Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Well — I mean — being short with you. It was decent of you to ask about them. I suppose I was an ass not to take your advice. And — about that — I mean, I wasn’t insinuating anything. It was an awfully rotten thing to ask you if you knew anything. You quite understand, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Kitty. Now she wanted to cry, which was altogether too awful to contemplate. Also, she was perilously soft toward him, and it made her want to tell him the truth far more — which was likewise too awful to contemplate.

She was happy that he had forgiven her; terribly unhappy that she had ever invited forgiveness by coming down.

Jim went on in his stammering way: “I had rather a dust-up with Bordington last night about it. I mentioned casually about the rise. You know — nothing was meant. I gave him credit for having acted decently and for being lucky. He jumped down my throat.”

“Yes?” asked Kitty. She wasn’t listening particularly. She was wondering whether she could look up at him and retain her self-control.

“Went absolutely off the deep end. Asked me if I was insinuating anything. Of course, that made me wonder. I mean vehement declarations of innocence without accusation usually point to guilt, don’t they?”

“I suppose so,” said Kitty. He was, she thought, nicer than ever. He hadn’t suspected Bordington. It was just what he would not do. It wasn’t in him to suspect anybody — not even herself.

“I said something. One does in those moments. We had a bit of a set to.”

“You quarreled?” asked Kitty.

“I suppose you’d call it that. I walked out. I expected to be fired this morning, but he seemed all right. He had a letter in handwriting I’ve never seen before which seemed to amuse him, and he told me I need not hang around all the morning as he was expecting a visitor. But the butler gave me a good look over and two of the maids. They must have heard the dust-up, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Kitty awkwardly.

Again they were silent. The subject of Che Fiangs was exhausted, and there seemed nothing else to talk about. Lansdale’s quarrel with Bordington, seeing that it had produced no serious after effects, was of little importance at the moment. Both had a consciousness that all their talk had been in circles, carefully evading the centerpoint of interest — themselves.

At last Jim said: “Are you staying here for long, this time? I thought you had to be back.”

“I — got a day off, and came down.”

“Why?” The question was a little eager, quick.

“I — thought — I ought to see you, and apologize for bolting — like I did.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’m sorry I was so cut up when I first saw you. I ought to have understood.”

So he was accepting her presence in the park that night! He did not intend to push the matter further. Kitty was unutterably miserable. It was like deceiving a child. He wanted to believe in her, and, despite herself, he persisted in doing so.

She wanted to run away. She was drifting toward the edge of a precipice, and she knew it. Soon, by these halting steps, he would come again to declaration of love, and this time she would not be strong enough to stop him.

Coming down to Bordington had been sheer, stupendous folly, playing with fire; and both he and she were likely to get burned.

He stepped a little closer to her.

“Kitty—” he said, unsteadily.

She tried to answer him, but could not. Her eyes were misted, so that she did not see clearly. Her face was pitifully pale.

A shot rang out.

In the stillness of the morning it sounded like a hammer blow on glass at night time.

It came from the direction of the manor, short, sharp, vicious.

There was a great cry. Something broke through by the kitchen garden, and ran — a man running like mad. Kitty saw him for but a moment, before he vanished into the undergrowth which, at that point, reached down from the woodland toward the gardens; then he had vanished.

“What was that?” asked Jim, voicing the usual exclamation in such a crisis.

“Come on!”

Kitty gathered her skirts and ran toward the manor.

Jim came after her.

Chapter XI Deadlock of Foes

After Kitty had left him on the day he accepted her offer of partnership, Bill Smith gave considerable thought to the matter of Che Fiangs. At first, when he received the information his brokers had to give him, he had been too enraged calmly to consider the whole situation; but his rage soon passed. Years and experience had long since taught William Smith the futility of anger.

Somebody — who knew — had spoiled the market. Somebody — who knew—

Bill Smith turned that over in his mind for a long time — all the afternoon, in fact. And in this consideration of it he remembered the words of that strangely wise little beauty who had just become his partner. She advised him to watch his step in regard to Bordington, who was not such a fool as he seemed.