Broderick really thought nothing of the sort, but calculated his words; and they produced their effect. The blood rose to the girl's hair, then ebbed, leaving her ghastly. "He would hate her then," she whispered. "Not Rush. Another man, perhaps; but not only do things go too deep with a man like that for anything but time to cure, but he's chock full of romantic chivalry. And he's madly in love, remember; by that I mean in the first flush. He'd look upon her as a martyr, and immediately set to work to ward suspicion from her; if an alibi could not be proved for him he'd take the crime on his own shoulders, if the worst came to worst." "Oh! Are men really so Quixotic in these days?" "Haven't changed fundamentally since they evolved from protoplasm." "But why should all that chivalry--that magnificent passion--the first love of a man like that--be called out by a woman of Mrs. Balfame's age? Why, it's some girl's right! I don't say mine. Don't think I'm a dog in the manger. I'm trying not to be. But the world is full of girls--not foolish young things only good enough for boys, but girls in their twenties, bright, companionable, helpful, real mates for men--Why, it is unnatural, damnable!" "Yes, it is," said Broderick sympathetically. "But if human nature weren't a tangled wire fence electrified full of contradictions, life wouldn't be interesting at all. Perhaps it's a mere case of affinity, destiny--don't ever betray me. But there it is. As well try to explain the abrupt taking off of useful men in their prime, of lovely children, of needed mothers, of aged women who have lived exemplary lives, mainly for others, spending their last years with the horrors of cancer. Don't try to explain human passion. And she _is_ beautiful, and fresher to look at than girls of eighteen that tango day and night. But he must be saved from her as well as from arrest. Will you help me?" "What do you want me to do?" "Get further evidence about Mrs. Balfame." "I cannot, and would not if I could. Do you think I would be the means of fastening the crime of murder on any woman?" "You would if you were a hardened--and good--newspaper woman." "Well, I'm not. And I won't. Do your own sleuthing." "More than I are on the job, but I want your help. I don't say you can pick up fragments of her dress in the grove, or that you can--or would--worm yourself into her confidence and extract a confession. But you can set your wits to work and think up ways to put me on the track of more evidence than I've got now. Can you think of anything off-hand?" "No." "Ah? What does that intonation mean?" "Your ears are off the key." "Not mine. Tell me at once--No,"--He rose and took up his hat--"never mind now. Think it over. You will tell me in a day or two. Just remember while watching all my little seeds sprout that you can help me save a fine fellow and put my heel on a snake--a murderess! Paugh! There's nothing so obscene. Good night."