“I suppose so. Now, we must get back, for my reasons and your own good. When can I see you again?” “Oh, I don’t know. It all depends on the outcome of the present meeting of the two. If your aunt seems to want sympathy or help I daresay Mother would feel kindly toward her in this trouble. But if Miss Letty is uppish and reserved,—as I fear she will be,—then Mother will go for her! I’m only imagining all this; I’ve no idea what will really happen.” Poor little Dorcas, it was well for her present peace of mind that she hadn’t! The two walked slowly back to The Campanile, almost forgetting the tragedy that had come so close to them, in the content of being together. Corson met them at the door. “Been looking for you,” he said to Bates. “And, Miss Everett, your mother is inquiring where you are. She left word for you to go to her the moment you appeared.” “Yes,” Dorcas returned, and then, shyly, “Please don’t say I was with Mr Bates, will you?” Corson looked at her, with interest. Pretty Dorcas, her shy, brown eyes falling at the idea of asking for secrecy, but her judgment, already trained in diplomacy, telling her it was necessary. “I won’t,” and Corson smiled at her, “if, you’ll answer a question or two. Where were you last night at two o’clock?” “In bed and asleep,” said the girl simply. “Thank goodness you don’t refuse to tell! And at what time did you retire?” “About eleven.” “And where had you spent the evening?” “Oh, I say, Corson,” and Bates interrupted, “that’s in the class with your grilling of me. You know Miss Everett isn’t implicated, you know you’re asking her that because you’ve got the habit. Run along, Dorcas, you don’t have to be quizzed any more.” Dorcas turned quickly, and just managed to catch an up-bound elevator as its door was about to close. “Now, you let her alone, Corson,” said Bates, sharply. “I don’t mind telling you she’s the girl I intend to marry, but we’re not really engaged. That is, it isn’t announced. And I ask you, as man to man, to say nothing of it, to say nothing to her, and to keep her out of it all you can. Lord knows, you’ve no reason to think of her in connection with the horrible affair!” “No; except as she’s interested in you, and you’re the heir.” “Forget it. Who told you I was the heir?” “Everybody knows it,—it’s in all the papers.” “I haven’t looked at a paper! Lord, I don’t think I can!” “Better not; they’re not pretty reading.” “What do you mean? Any aspersions against my uncle’s character?” “No, not that. But when the word women occurs in connection with the murder of a rich and influential man, there’s bound to be surmise,—at least.” “Oh, I suppose so. Well, do you want me down here? I’d like to go up to see my aunt.” “Wait a minute. Have you ever thought, Mr Bates, that the feud between your aunt and Mrs Everett is a mighty queer affair?” “I’ve often thought that, but,—pardon me,—don’t get outside your own proper boundaries!”