“Go for it!” I told myself inexorably, but miserably. “It’s not a question of liking it, you know. You’ve got to do it.” Grimly I wrapped my discarded clothes about the poor chap’s body, dragged it to the straw, and covered it from head to foot. By this action, I surmised, I was rendering myself a probable accessory and a certain suspect; but the one thing I really cared about was my last glimpse of that patient face. “Sorry, old man,” was all the apology I could muster. “And if I ever get a chance at the people who did it, you can count on me!” With a sigh of complete exhaustion, I rose and looked about. All signs of the crime had been obliterated from the garage. “I must be crazy!” I thought, as the enormity of the thing rushed on me. “I wonder why I did it? And I wonder whether I can forget it some day--maybe after twenty years?” As I opened the door to the garden the dim light was growing clearer. I was late; the girl, coated and hatted, ready for flitting, was already at the rendezvous. At sight of me in my leather togs she started backward; then, resolutely controlled, she drew herself up and faced me silently, her hands clutching at her furs, her lips a little apart. “Won’t you sit down?” I began lamely, indicating an iron bench. It was all so different from the interview I had planned last night! “I want to speak to you about your chauffeur, Miss Falconer. This morning I found him hurt--very badly hurt--” She drove straight through my pretense. “Not dead? Oh, Mr. Bayne, not dead?” “Yes,” I said gently. “He had been dead some time. I would have liked to take my chances with him; but I came too late. No, please!” She had moved forward, and I was barring her passage. “You mustn’t go. You can’t help him, and you wouldn’t like the sight.” How black her eyes were in her white face! “I don’t understand,” she faltered. “You mean that he was murdered? But who would have killed Georges?” “The men who came last night--if you can call them men. At least, appearances point that way,” I said. “The men in the gray car?” She swayed a little. “But why?” “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.” My tone was grim; there were so many things about this matter that I couldn’t tell. Her eyes flashed for an instant. “But how cowardly, how cruel! He never hurt anyone; he was just like a good watchdog, the truest, most faithful soul! If they killed him they did it for some deliberate purpose. And when I think that I brought him here--oh, oh, Mr. Bayne--” “Yes,” I broke in hastily; “I should like to see them boil in oil or fry on gridirons or something of the sort, myself. But this is very serious; we must keep calm, Miss Falconer. And I know you are going to help me. You have such splendid self-control.”