He stood for a moment looking on the ground, his brows drawn low over his eyes, the bones of his jaw showing set under the flesh. A deadly fear seized me—a fear that followed on a flash of understanding. I got up—I guess as white as he was—and went over to him. "Jack," I said. "You can’t do anything. Everything’s against her. There’s not a point that doesn’t show she’s guilty." He gave me a look from under his eyebrows like the thrust of a sword. "Don’t say that to me again, Molly," he almost whispered, "or I’ll forget the debt I owe you and the affection I’ve felt for you since the day we swore to be friends." "What can you do?" I cried, fairly distracted. "They’ve got the evidence. It’s there——" I tried to put my hand on his arm but he shook it off and walked toward the door. I followed him and during those few short steps from the dining-room to the hall, it came to me as clear as if he’d said it that he was going to Carol Whitehall to help her run away. "What are you going to do?" I said, standing in the doorway as he pulled his hat off the peg and turned toward the hall door. "That’s my affair," he threw back over his shoulder. He had his hand on the knob when a thought—an inspiration flashed on me. I don’t know where it came from, but when you’re fond of a person and see them headed for a precipice, I believe you get some sort of wireless communication from Heaven or some place of that order. "Miss Whitehall’s not in town now," I said. He stopped short and looked back at me: "Where is she?" "They’ve gone back to New Jersey. Some people loaned them a cottage in the Azalea Woods Estates." "I knew that—but they’re not there yet?" "Yes. They went yesterday, sooner than they expected." He stood for a moment, looking at the floor, then glanced back at me and said: "Thank you for telling me that. Good night." The door opened, banged shut and I was alone. I wonder if anyone reading this story can imagine what I felt. It was awful, so awful that now, here, writing it down peaceful and happy, I can feel the sinking at my heart and the sick sensation like I could never eat food again. And _laugh_? It was an art I’d lost and never in this world would get back. It was not only that he loved her—_that_ woman, that vampire, who could sin at the word of an old man—but it was the thought, the certainty, that he was ready to betray his trust, go back on his partners, be a traitor to his office. All the work they’d done, all the hopes they’d built up, all their efforts for success, he was going to destroy. It was disgrace for him, he’d never get over it, he’d be an outcast. As long as he lived he’d be pointed at as the man who gave his honor for the love of a wicked woman.