WHEN Anne went up to her room she took a seat by the window where she could see the channel. It was an undecipherable blackness, its farther limit defined by the shore lights. But the night was very still, the sagging weight of cloud hung low pressing down sounds. She could hear the barking of dogs, the cries of children, a snatch of song from the mainland. In this intense quiet the first explosive throbs of a starting launch would be carried clearly across the sounding board of the water. She kept telling herself that Rawson’s absence had nothing to do with Joe. She had been telling herself the same thing ever since Williams’ remark at supper. She gave her reasons for thinking so, as if she were trying to convince an adversary who was maintaining an opposing position. It was as Shine had said, Rawson had gone on some business they knew nothing of. There must be endless business connected with such a case. She remembered murder cases she had read of in the papers--accounts of false leads, trails picked up and dropped, legal questions of state and county authority. Then across the water, running along the surface in stuttering reverberations, came the sound of the launch’s engine starting. She saw the light leave the shore and come sliding forward, moving smoothly like a light held in a steady hand. Below it a golden dagger stabbed down into the glossy blackness of the current. She watched it approaching, the inside of her mouth like leather, her clenched hands wet. When it had disappeared round the end of the house she faced the door and stood waiting. Her power to argue with herself was gone--if he had found out anything he might come for her. She calculated his movements: in the library now, talking with the others. A long time seemed to pass. The stifling pulsations of her heart died down, and moving with an exquisite quietness as if any sound she made might bridge the space and call them running to surprise her guilty terror, she stole to the door and opened it a crack. The living-room was lighted but empty; they were in the library, shut in. Again a time passed and again her heart calmed to a slower beat. It must be business, the business that had nothing to do with Joe. She closed the door and decided now she might rest, not go to bed yet, but lie down and try to get back to courage and control. She took off her dress and put on her negligée, and with hands raised to loosen her hair heard a step on the stairs. It struck upon her ear, heavy and quick, a man’s step, and she remained as she was, her arms lifted, her eyes staring into her reflected eyes in the mirror. She stood thus till it stopped at her door. When the knock came and Rawson’s voice spoke her name, the hands dropped and she moved to the door. “Can you come down-stairs for a minute?” the voice said, low and guarded. “I’m sorry to ask you to get up.” She opened the door. “I hadn’t gone to bed. Yes, of course I’ll come. You want to----”