The novelist hesitated. "There are no human scales for any soul. Though, to be sure----" "What?" "It might have been avoided. As it is, they will suspect her." "Cassy?" "Naturally. They can't hold Lennox on a paper-cutter--that belongs to me, and a few empty words said in my presence and which, if necessary, I did not hear. They can't hold him on that. But when they learn, as they will, the circumstances of your daughter's misadventure, they will arrest her." "Merciful God!" The jeopardy to her, a jeopardy previously undiscerned, but which then shaken at him, instantly took shape, twisted his mouth into the appalling grimace that mediaeval art gave to the damned. "And you don't want that," Jones remotely resumed. "Want it!" Galvanised by the shock, the musician sat suddenly up. "Last night, after I got back, I slept like a log. This morning, I felt if I had not done it, I would still have it to do and that satisfied me. But afterwards, when I learned about Lennox, it threw me here. Now----My God!" He fell back. The poor devil is done for, thought Jones, who, wondering whether he could get it over in time, leaned forward. "Mr. Cara, don't you think you had best make it plain sailing for everybody, and let me draw up a declaration?" The disc now had run out. The grunt of the beast was stilled. From beyond came the quick click of a key. Almost at once Cassy appeared. She hurried to her father. "There were people ahead of me. They took forever. Has Mr. Jones told you? Mr. Lennox did not do it." Breaking a tube in a handkerchief, she was administering the amyl and Jones wondered whether she could then suspect. But her face was turned from him, he could not read it, and realising that, in any event, she must be spared the next act, he cast about for an excuse to get her away. At once, remembering the notary, he produced him. "Your father wants me to draw a paper on which his signature should be attested. If I am not asking too much, would you mind going back to the druggist for the notary whose sign I saw there?" Cassy turned from her father. "A paper? What paper?" Bravely Jones lied. "A will." Cassy looked from one to the other. "The poor dear often has these attacks. He will be better soon--now that he knows. Won't you, daddy?" Angelo Cara's eyes had in them an expression infinitely tender, equally vacant. It was as though, in thinking of her, he was thinking too of something else. Though, as Jones afterward decided, he probably was not thinking at all. Cassy exclaimed at him. "Besides, what have you--except me?" "Everybody has to make a will," Jones, lying again, put in. "There has been a new law passed. The eternal revenue collector requires it." Cassy smoothed the rug, put the handkerchief on the table, opened a drawer, got out some paper, a pen, a bottle of ink. In a moment she had gone.