Then, before either could act, a key explored the lock, and Paul Bartlett's anxious face peered through the opening. He started at sight of them, but came forward with an ejaculation of relief. "I remembered I had a key," he explained. "It was so still I thought something had gone wrong. Where's Amy?" Jean signed toward the bedroom, and the three tip-toed into the parlor and shut the door. An awkward silence rested upon them for an instant. Jean's thoughts raced back to her last meeting with the dentist in this room, and she knew that Paul could be scarcely less the prey of his memories. Atwood himself, divining something of what such a reunion meant, was stricken with a share of their embarrassment. Paul pulled himself together first. "I came to help Amy, if I could," he said to Jean; "and also to see you. I've read the papers, and I thought"--he hesitated lamely--"I thought somebody ought to take your place. It's not pleasant to be dragged into a murder case--not pleasant for a lady, I mean," he corrected himself hastily. "_I_ don't mind. Mrs. St. Aubyn won't mind, either. I've 'phoned her--she always liked Amy, you know--and she's coming soon. You needn't wait. You mustn't be expected to--to--oh, for God's sake, sir," he broke off, wheeling desperately upon Atwood, "take your wife away!" Jean's eyes blurred with sudden tears, which fell unrestrained when Craig's chivalry met the dentist's halfway. "Now _I_ know you for the true man Jean has praised," he said, gripping Paul's hand. "But I can't take her away. She has a responsibility--we both have a responsibility it's impossible to shirk. Tell him, Jean!" The dentist squared his shoulders in the old way, when she ceased. "I'll see that Amy reaches headquarters," he said doggedly. "Neither of you need go. There isn't the slightest necessity. I'm her old friend, the lessee of this flat: who would be more likely to act for her? You convince her that she must toe the mark--I can't undertake that part; and then, the sooner you leave, the better." Atwood turned irresolutely toward the window and threw up the shade as if his physical being craved light. Jean met the straightforward eyes. "Why should you shoulder it, Paul?" Bartlett shot a look at Atwood, who nervously drummed the pane, his gaze fixed outward; and then, with a sweeping gesture, invoked the silent argument of the room. "I guess you know," he added simply. Her face softened with ineffable tenderness. "I'll tell Amy you are here," she said. The men heard her pass down the hall and knock; wait, knock again, calling Amy's name; wait once more; and then return. "Shall we let her sleep while she can?" she whispered. "It's a hideous thing that she must meet." Atwood's look questioned the dentist, whose reply was to brush by them both and assault Amy's door. "Amy!" he shouted. "Amy!"