She saw the shadow dodge behind a tree. Balfame appeared almost abruptly in the light shed by the street lamp in front of his gate; and then it seemed to her that she had held her breath for a lifetime before her ears were stunned by a sharp report, her eyes blinked at a spurt of fire, before she heard David Balfame give a curious sound, half moan, half hiccough, saw him clutch at the gate, then sink to the ground. She was hardly conscious of running, far more conscious that some one else was running--through the orchard and toward the back fence. Hours later, it seemed to her, she was in the kitchen closing the door behind her. Something curious had happened in her brain, so trained to orderly routine that it seldom prompted an erratic course. She should have run at once to her husband, and here she was inside the house, and once more listening intently. It was the fancied sound that swung her consciousness back to its balance. She went to the front of the back stairs and called sharply: "Frieda!" There was no answer. "Frieda," she called again. "Did you hear anything? I thought I heard some one trying to open the back door." Again there was no answer. Then, her lip curling at the idea of Frieda's return on Saturday night at eight o'clock, she went rapidly into the dining-room, carried the glass containing the lemonade into the kitchen, rinsed it thoroughly, and put it away. It was not until she reached her room that it occurred to her that she should have ascertained whether or not the key was on the inside of the rear hall door. But this was merely a flitting thought; there were loud and excited voices down by the gate. In an instant she had hung up her automobile cloak and veil, changed her dress for a wrapper, let down her hair and thrown open the window. "What is the matter?" Her tone was peremptory but apprehensive. "Matter enough!" John Gifning's voice was rough and broken. "Don't come out here. Mean to say you didn't hear a shot?" Two or three men were running about nearer the house. One paused under her window, and looked up, waving his hand vaguely. "Shot? Shot? I heard--so many tires explode--What do you mean? What is it?--Who--" "Here's the coroner!" cried one of the group at the gate. "Coroner?" She ran down stairs, threw open the front door and went as swiftly toward the gate, her hair streaming behind her. "Who is it?" she demanded. "Now--now." Mr. Gifning intercepted her and clasped her shoulder firmly. "You don't want to go down there--and don't take on--" She drew herself up haughtily. "I am not an hysterical woman. Who has been shot down at my gate?" "Well," blurted out Gifning. "I guess you'll have to know. It's poor old Dave." Mrs. Balfame drew herself still higher and stood quite rigid for a moment; then the coroner, one of her husband's friends, came up the path and said in a low tone to Gifning, "Take her upstairs. We're goin' to bring him in. He's gone, for a fact."