“Who’s going to get her story out of her?” asked the judge. “William?” Daniel stared out of the window in silence. “That indictment has got to be either murder or manslaughter. It depends on the story. Who’s going to get it? I reckon William can.” “I’ll see,” said Daniel quietly. “I’m going up home now. Can you”--he hesitated--“can you keep father here?” The judge nodded. They both glanced at the man sitting in the judge’s big swivel chair. Mr. Carter was leaning back dejectedly, with both hands clenched on the arms of the chair, and his head bent forward. He was staring fixedly at the blotting-paper on the judge’s desk, his mouth hanging open. Daniel picked up his hat and quietly left the room. He did not walk home. He was worn out and he hailed a taxi. He had already telephoned the verdict of the coroner’s jury to his mother, and he knew they were, in a measure, prepared for the worst; but his heart sank as he ascended the familiar old steps. Even the rose-bush beside the door seemed to bewail the thought of the youngest boy, the mother’s pet, being in jail. Emily opened the door for him. Her nose was still red, and she was trying vainly to wink back her tears. “Mama’s gone to bed,” she announced chokingly. “She’s cried herself sick. And William’s gone out--I don’t know where he’s gone. Mama’s afraid he’ll--he’ll drown himself!” “He came down to Judge Jessup’s office to hear about Leigh, and he’s gone over to the Payson Building,” said Daniel dryly. “You go and tell mother he’s all right. And--listen, Emily--I’ve got to see Fanchon. Will you please ask her to come down-stairs?” “Ask Fanchon to come down-stairs? Me?” Emily crumpled. “I guess I won’t!” “I’ve got to see her,” repeated Daniel. He drew a pad from his pocket, wrote a line on it, and folded it. “You take that up, Emmy.” Emily backed. “No!” “Don’t you want to save Leigh?” asked Daniel sharply. “Yes? Then you take that up and stick it under her door and knock. She’ll read it.” “She won’t. She hasn’t eaten anything. I think she’s going to starve herself to death.” “Nonsense! You do as I say.” Emily still backed. Then, catching his eye, she wavered, took the paper, and ran, sobbing, up-stairs. Daniel waited impatiently, walking up and down the hall. He had never been able to form a clear idea of Fanchon. He could not even conjecture what she would do. He had never believed in her, he did not believe in her now, and he felt the deepest resentment toward her for having brought his young brother to this. He was still walking up and down the hall when Emily called to him from the staircase in a watery stage whisper: “She says, come up to her room.” Reluctantly Daniel went up-stairs. Emily was hanging over the banisters at the top. “She’s in the little front room over the door,” she whispered, sniffing. “I think she’s going away; I saw her trunks open.”