Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1931-03-12
MANHATTAN NICETEIaA
N "".- .-.. We" SyKN

viously, for them to put him to work
| than to tell him how to 60 about 1t.
He went into the Yale Club, later, and
buried himself in the evening papers.
He had already an uncomfortable feel
ing that he was being stared at. And
good Lord, If he felt that, what was It
going to be like for Martha? No one
suspected him Of having killed Tack.
The papers told him nothing he didn't
know. It was gruesone work, reading
them. seeing pictures of Martha and
Tack and of their place; 1t was mad
dening business, reading the sly, insin-
uating paragraphs in the yellower rags.
The case was godsend to them.
About O'Clock he couldn't stand his
own company, the sense Of futility that
oppressed him, any longer. He walked
up Park avenue, slowly, TO Carols:
with a morbid fascination he looked
around. Yes, there were men waiting,
purposefully, with blank eyes, who cor
responded perfectly to Charley Mitchell's
description of his fellow detectives. But
there were no newspaper men. Con-
molly, 50 far, had spared them that, at
least.
Carol had come in just before him.
"Oh, you're here, are you?" she
said. ''Martha's awake. just looked
In. and she called TO me. She's a
little hazy still, think, but she says
she wants to see you. You'd better
wait a minute-I'll call you"
The sight of Martha, when he went
in to her room, nearly broke his heart
He'd never seen her in bed before
naturally, and neither had he ever seer
her looking quite the way she did now
Tears came into her eyes when she
saw him, and he'd never seen her cry
before, except in anger. She reached out
her hand as he sat down beside her
and chung TO his.
TITS ali right. Martha" he said "It's
all right-it's going to be all right
They"
He stopped He couldn't go on.
I'm not frightened any more, Peter, >
she said, quietly. II mean-well, I am
but it doesn't matter. Whatever hap
pens to me, I'll deserve 1t. I'm think
ing of Tack. Poor old Tack. It's my
fault Peter--it's all my fault"
Don't talk that wayl" he said. "How
could it be your fault?"
Tim not quite sure. just how, y
she said, slowly. I've got to think
and can't seem to, very well. Only
do know that. I know that If II
hadn't been for me, tearing things to
pieces to get what I wanted, it wouldn't
have happened. You see-there are
lots of things you don't know, Peter,
and I've got to tell you, now. Peter
tell me what's happened since-strce
came here"
He hesitated.
you must" she said. Never, in her
most capricious, her most tyrannical
moods, had her voice been as COM
polling as it was now in this moment
of a tenderness he had never quite
known she had 1t in her to display
He'd always known that she could feel
it; not that she would ever let it appear
you must, Peter dear. I've no one
else to help me, no one else I can de-
pend on. You must tell me everything
you know"
He looked at her, and knew that she
was right. And so, very quietly, slowly,
SO that he might be sure he was leav-
ing nothing out, he told her about
Charley Mitchell, and about what Con-
molly thought, and what the lawyers
had said, and about the way Ross had
vanished.
She caught her breath, sharply, al
that, and her hand frightened over his
81 don't believe he knew about Tack, y
she said. 81 think he had some other
reason for going OF that way"
Peter started. He'd never thought
Of that. Ever since lunch he'd been
accepting Ross disappearance as the
equivalent Of confession. But Martha
might be right, of course. For thou
sand reasons he didn't want to believe
that Ross had had any hand or part
In Tack's death.
as that all, PeterP All you know9"
asked Martha.
"Yes," he said. Martha, you can
see why had to tell things you'd told