“_Stop!_ You shan’t say that! There wasn’t any hypocrisy at all, on my part or hers. You know it. I have been honest with you from the very beginnin’. That day, years ago, when she went to live with you, I warned you to be careful. I knew you, and I knew her, and I warned you that you couldn’t force her to draw her every breath just at the second when you told her to. I had seen you drive and drive her poor father, and I saw that road end in smash, just as this one has ended. And you mustn’t call her a hypocrite, either. She has been honest with you always--except perhaps for those few days when she let Bob Griffin paint her picture without tellin’ you about it. But have you played straight and aboveboard with her? You can answer that yourself, but I tell you she doesn’t think you have. And I tell you the plain truth when I say that nobody, short of the Almighty himself, could have stopped what has happened to-night. You be thankful it happened as it did--here in this house, with a friend--yes, a good friend, and there’s no hypocrisy about that either--to see it done and keep every mean mouth in Harniss shut tight. You can be thankful for that, Foster Townsend, I give you my word _I_ am.” He was standing there, his hand upon the latch. Now, as she paused, breathless, the fires of righteous indignation still burning in her eyes, he carried that hand to his face. A sob shook him. “Oh, don’t!” he groaned. “For God’s sake, don’t! Let me out of here! Let me get away--somewhere.” And then, of all inopportune times, Fate chose that moment to bring Millard Fillmore Clark upon the scene. The door opened and he came into the room. He looked at his sister, then at her visitor. His backbone suppled; his hat was removed with a flourish. “Well, well!” he exclaimed, in polite surprise. “It is you, ain’t it, Cap’n Foster. How do you do, sir?” Then, as the possibilities of the situation crossed his mind, he added, a little more anxiously: “You and Reliance been havin’ a little talk about--about what you and me talked about yesterday? I--I thought it was best to tell her, you understand.” He might have said more, probably would had the opportunity been given him. It was not. Foster Townsend’s big hand shot forward, seized him by the shoulder and threw him headlong from the doorway. He spun across the room, tripped over the hassock, and fell sprawling. Before he could rise, or even understand what had happened to him, Townsend had gone. CHAPTER XXIII