"I understand," Pendleton answered. "I am willing to take the risk." "And Stephanie can--if the extremity arise," Cameron went on, "tell the facts and relieve you. We may have to confide in the front office, but I think even that will not be necessary. Fix up the story with her while I notify the police. I'll use the upstairs telephone." "What do you want me to tell?" asked Stephanie, entering the hall from the dining-room door. She had regained her composure--and save for a slight flush on her cheeks she appeared as calm and self-contained as ever. "We want to save you the painful experience of having to relate what happened--there," Pendleton replied, with a slight motion toward the living-room. "You can say that you were upstairs asleep--lying down after dinner--that you heard nothing of the fight until something aroused you and you descended to find Cameron and me here, and the----" "How will you account for _your_ presence?" she interrupted. "By the truth--that I came to call, entered the house by the piazza and the living-room just as Lorraine delivered the fatal blow, Lorraine's explanation of the deed, and his own sudden death." Slowly she shook her head. "Do you think the police will believe it?" she asked. "Certainly--why should they doubt it?" he answered. "Do you think the public will believe it?" "Of course!--And what have the public to do with it anyway?" "They might ask, both the police and the public--and the police will _have_ to ask if the public demands to know--what you had to do with the killing? Your friendship to me in the past; your--devotion in the present; my--love, they will say, for you; the coincidence of Lorraine's and Amherst's visits, coupled with your own, and that _you_ survive while _they_ died--all, all will make most startling inferences, don't you think, Montague?" "Not in the least, dear!" he smiled, though he knew she spoke the truth--at least so far as the public was concerned. To it there would always be something unexplained about the tragedy; something that either he or Stephanie could have made plain--and would not. "My reputation and standing in the community, and the reputation of my family before me, is sufficient answer to such inferences," he added. Again she shook her head. "No man's reputation should be taxed--where murder has been done and self-interest can be imputed--when the truth can be told by an eye-witness," she decided. "I shall have to speak eventually, so it is much the wiser to speak at once--to delay will only breed doubt of my tale. I shall tell the story, dear." "No--you shall----" "Yes, dear; I shall tell the story." It was final. Even Pendleton realized it. "Am I worth it, little woman?" he asked. "It is _I_ who am not worthy," she replied--"I never have been worthy of your--love." He held out his arms. "Sweetheart!" he cried. She went to him, with an adorable smile and a sigh of supreme content.