"No, I can't. I want you to stay _here_. My reasons are as good as yours. Now let's get that off our mind and enjoy the meal." His manner struck her protests to the ground again. She was no longer fearing the immediate outcome, in fact, she never had, but she knew that if he broke her to his will now, all the safeguards, all the chaperons, all the conventions in the world wouldn't save her from ultimate consequences. This was the try-out that was to establish her pace in the final contest; she would stand or fall upon the record she made at this moment. For she was trying out something more than Flint's temper, something greater than a mechanical adjustment of human relationships--she was trying out _herself_. She sat for some moments, thinking hard, one hand fingering the slender base of the wine-filled glass in front of her, the other dropped in pensive limpness at her side. Flint had cleared the space in front of him of everything but his two wine-glasses. He had slipped down in his seat and his two bloodshot eyes were fixing her with a level stare. She stirred finally and rose. He was on his feet in an instant. "I'm going to telephone," she said, calmly. "Telephone ... where?... What's the idea?" "Mr. Flint," she answered, a bit wearily, "at least I'm a guest in your house, am I not?" He settled back in his seat with a grunt of acquiescence. She stood dazed for a moment, surprised at the chance that had put such telling words into her mouth. She had been fingering timidly for the key to his chivalry; quite by accident she had hit upon it in the shape of this appeal to her expectations of him in the rôle of host. She could have lied, of course, and told him that she wished to telephone her mother, but she had not yet been cornered sufficiently to resort to so distasteful a weapon.... As she left the room she found herself wondering whether Stillman had by any chance left the Tom Forsythes. She looked at the clock. It was not quite eight o'clock. She felt reassured, yet she was tremendously frightened.... Especially as she realized that the telephone was in the entrance hall within earshot of the dining-room.... She was decidedly more frightened when she got back from her telephoning, and looked at Flint. He was clutching at the table with both hands, his body tilted slightly forward, his lips ominously thin. "You telephoned to the Tom Forsythes, didn't you?" "Yes." "And you asked for Stillman.... Did you get him?" "Yes." "What did you want with him?" "If you heard that much, I guess you heard the rest, Mr. Flint." Claire stood at her place at the table. She decided not to sit. Flint bore down on both hands until things began to creak.