“Perhaps we'd better not go into that now,” David said hastily. “It's natural that the readjustments will take time.” “We'll have to go into it. It's the hardest thing I have to face.” “It's not dead, then?” “No,” Dick said slowly. “It's not dead, David. And I'd better bring it into the open. I've fought it to the limit by myself. It's the one thing that seems to have survived the shipwreck. I can't argue it down or think it down.” “Maybe, if you see Elizabeth--” “I'd break her heart, that's all.” He tried to make David understand. He told in its sordid details his failure to kill it, his attempts to sink memory and conscience in Chicago and their failure, the continued remoteness of Elizabeth and what seemed to him the flesh and blood reality of the other woman. That she was yesterday, and Elizabeth was long ago. “I can't argue it down,” he finished. “I've tried to, desperately. It's a--I think it's a wicked thing, in a way. And God knows all she ever got out of it was suffering. She must loathe the thought of me.” David was compelled to let it rest there. He found that Dick was doggedly determined to see Beverly Carlysle. After that, he didn't know. No man wanted to surrender himself for trial, unless he was sure himself of whether he was innocent or guilty. If there was a reasonable doubt--but what did it matter one way or the other? His place was gone, as he'd made it, gone if he was cleared, gone if he was convicted. “I can't come back, David. They wouldn't have me.” After a silence he asked: “How much is known here? What does Elizabeth know?” “The town knows nothing. She knows a part of it. She cares a great deal, Dick. It's a tragedy for her.” “Shall you tell her I have been here?” “Not unless you intend to see her.” But Dick shook his head. “Even if other things were the same I haven't a right to see her, until I've got a clean slate.” “That's sheer evasion,” David said, almost with irritation. “Yes,” Dick acknowledged gravely. “It is sheer evasion.” “What about the police?” he inquired after a silence. “I was registered at Norada. I suppose they traced me?” “Yes. The house was watched for a while; I understand they've given it up now.” In response to questions about his own condition David was almost querulous. He was all right. He would get well if they'd let him, and stop coddling him. He would get up now, in spite of them. He was good for one more fight before he died, and he intended to make it, in a court if necessary. “They can't prove it, Dick,” he said triumphantly. “I've been over it every day for months. There is no case. There never was a case, for that matter. They're a lot of pin-headed fools, and we'll show them up, boy. We'll show them up.” But for all his excitement fatigue was telling on him. Lucy tapped at the door and came in. “You'd better have your supper before it spoils,” she said. “And David needs a rest. Doctor Reynolds is in the office. I haven't told him yet.”