And even then, as he stood there, with Covell lying senseless and bleeding at his feet, there was forced upon him the realization that far more than this must be considered. There were other names--his own, of course, but he was in it and must go through with it somehow. He was bound to be talked about. But Esther Townsend must not be. No one knew of the accident yet--no one save himself--and Covell, if the latter should ever know anything again in this world. No one else knew where it happened, nor of the quarrel leading up to it. They must not know. He was quite aware of the local sensation which his frequent calls at the Townsend house had caused. And since those calls ceased and Esther was seen so much in Seymour Covell’s company, sly hints had been dropped in his presence to the effect that the visitor from Chicago had “cut him out.” If he should tell the whole truth, of the meeting with his reputed rival and their quarrel--why-- No, the truth must not be told, nor must any one discover it. So he had dismissed all idea of seeking help, had lifted the unconscious man to the carriage seat and driven carefully and quietly away. It was not until he turned the corner and was safe upon the main road that he began to hope the secret--the dangerous portion of it--might remain undiscovered. The story he intended telling Foster Townsend was to be a combination of truth and what he considered justifiable falsehood. The truth dealt with his decision to go to the studio, his stay there and his leaving just before two. And this he did tell without hesitation. “But what in the world brought you down to this forsaken roost in the middle of the night?” asked the captain. “Oh, I don’t know. I had a few things to see to here. And--well, I didn’t feel like going home, right away. It does sound ridiculous, I admit, but it is true.” Foster Townsend rubbed his beard. He had learned of Griffin’s presence at the hall and he could imagine what the young man’s feelings must have been during the performance. He had long since made up his mind that Bob and Esther had quarreled that evening after he and Seymour Covell left them together in the library and, because it had broken off the highly undesirable friendship between the two, he was glad. It was sure to happen some time. His niece was a Townsend, and therefore possessed of the Townsend quota of common sense, and he had never really believed she could feel any sincere affection for a “Cook.” The break was inevitable and it had providentially come in time to cancel the necessity for the “plain talk” he had intended having with her had the intimacy continued. And, because Griffin was no longer a pestiferous nuisance to be reckoned with, so far as Esther and his plans for her were concerned, he was inclined to be tolerant with the young fellow--yes, even a little sorry for him. “Um-hum,” he said, reflectively. “I see. You came down here to be alone and--well, sort of think things out. Is that it?”