Rawson’s face showed no surprise, blankly inscrutable, but Williams wheeled in his chair and turned an expression of startled inquiry on Bassett. Bassett, in his turn, was staring in astonishment at Stokes. “What are you talking about?” he said. “Rage and spite--whom do you mean?” “I mean Joe Tracy,” was the answer. “Joe Tracy!” exclaimed Williams, looking vaguely about in a baffled searching of memory. “Who’s he?” “Good God, Aleck!” Bassett made a step forward: “Get a hold on yourself--think of what you’re saying. He wasn’t here, he’d left the island before that.” Stokes paid no attention but went on, glaring into Rawson’s expressionless face: “A damned devil of a boy with a record. Ask him,” he pointed to Bassett, “ask any of them what kind he was and how he acted here. It isn’t I alone that saw it. Yesterday morning at the rehearsal he’d have struck her if Bassett hadn’t interfered. What was the matter--I don’t know. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I know rage and hate when I see them.” “Aleck, you’re crazy,” Bassett’s voice was raised in exasperated insistence: “He’d _gone_.” “Couldn’t he come back? Aren’t there boats to be hired at Hayworth?” He turned to Rawson. “I don’t accuse him, I’m not like you, I don’t jump at conclusions, point and say ‘There’s the murderer!’ But I want a square deal and I won’t get it till you’ve looked up Joe Tracy. Call your dogs back from the scent they’re on and put them on his. Justice--that’s all I ask for--justice for my wife. For myself----” He stopped. His excitement seemed suddenly to die. He looked old and wearied, his body relaxed, the fire in his sunken eyes extinguished in a profound gloom. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I’ve thrown everything away--and Sybil’s dead.” There was a slight pause. Rawson broke it, clearing his throat and rising from his chair: “That’s enough for the time being, Mr. Stokes. You can go now, if we want you we’ll call on you later!” Without a word Stokes turned and left the room. When the door had closed on him Bassett said: “He’s out of his mind--Joe Tracy--when he knows he wasn’t here.” Williams gave a bearish shrug: “Oh, pshaw, what’s the matter with him’s easy to size up. Breaking down, losing his nerve. Whether he knows his wife did it or not he sees everything points there and he’s just laying hold of anything to mark time. They go like that--I’ve seen ’em before.” Rawson, who had been standing with his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the floor, moved to the chair: “Let’s hear about this boy, Mr. Bassett--all this anger and hate business he’s been buzzing round.” He sat down and lit a cigar. Through the smoke he watched Bassett with a narrowed glance as the director unfolded the story of Joe, the quarrel and Sybil’s accusation. When it was over Rawson knocked the ash from his cigar, meditatively looking at the crumbling gray heap: