"For Worth. I had to relate this crime to the one for which he'd been arrested. Within the hour, I'd gathered facts that showed me Edward Clayte killed Worth's father. When I brought that man and his crime to stand before me, and Bronson Vandeman and his crime to stand beside it--as I can bring things when I concentrate on them--I found they dove-tailed--the impossible was true--these two were one man." She looked around at the four of us, wondering at her, and finished, "Can't they take me home now, doctor?" "Sit and rest a few minutes. Have the door open," the young fellow said. And on the instant there came a call for me from the side entrance. "Mr. Boyne--are you in there? May I speak to you, please?" It was Skeet Thornhill's voice. I went out into the entry. There, climbing down from the old Ford truck, leaving its engine running, was Skeet herself. Her glance went first to the door I closed behind me. "Yes," I answered its question. "She's in there." Then, moved by the frank misery of her eyes, "She'll be all right. Very little hurt." She said something under her breath; I thought it was "Thank God!" looked about the deserted side entrance, seemed to listen to the flooding of music and movement from the ballroom, then lifting to mine a face so pale that its freckles stood out on it, faltered a step closer and studied me. "They phoned us," scarcely above a whisper. "Mother sent me for the girls and--Ina. Mr. Boyne," a break in her voice, "am I going to be able to take Ina back with me? Or is she--do they--?" "Wait," I said. "Here she comes now," as Cummings brought young Mrs. Vandeman toward us. She moved haughtily, head up, a magnificent evening wrap thrown over her costume, and saw her sister without surprise. "Skeet," she crossed and stood with her back to me, "there's been some trouble here. Keep it from mother if you can. I'm leaving--but we'll get it all fixed up. How did you get here? Can I take you back in the limousine?" The big, closed car, one of Vandeman's wedding gifts to her, purred slowly up the side drive, circling Skeet's old truck, and stopped a little beyond. Skeet gave it one glance, then reached a twitching hand to catch on the big silken sleeve. "You can't go to the bungalow, Ina. As I came past, they were placing men around it to--to watch it." "_What!_" Ina wheeled on us, looking from one to the other. "Mr. Boyne--Mr. Cummings--who had that done?" "Does it matter?" I countered. She made me tired. "Does it matter?" she snapped up my words, "Am I to be treated as if--as though--" Even Ina Vandeman's effrontery wouldn't carry her to a finish on that. I completed it for her, explicitly, "Mrs. Vandeman, whether you are detained as an accomplice or merely a material witness, I'm responsible for you. I would have the authority to allow you to go with your sister; but you'll not be permitted to even enter the bungalow."