"She's had wonderful loving care," Johnny said softly.
"Yes," said Emily and plucked her sheet.
"Now, you feel—if she is to marry . . . ?" he began. ...
"No, no, noT Emily gasped. "Don't try to guess, Jolmny. It only takes longer."
So he waited.
"My brother's name is Clinton McCauley," she said in a moment. "I've always gone to -see him once eyery month. He . . . loves all the news of Nan. But now . . ." She gathered strength and went on. "Christy was killed in the Bartee's house in Hestia. You see, she was related."
Johnny took in air. "This Richardson Bartee is related to Nan?" he asked as calmly as he could. He thought, well, that's it, then, and it's bad, all right.
But Emily shook her head. "Don't guess," she said feebly. "It's worse than you can guess. Much worse. No, not related. The old man had two wives. There's nothing like that."
So Johnny just waited.
"For seventeen years," said Emily in a moment, "Clint has been sure . . ."
"Yes?"
That the boy killed Christy. The wild kid-fifteen years old."
"What boy?"
"Richaidson Bartee," said Emily, her eyes pits of sorrow. "Now do you see?"
All Johnny's nerves tingled. "You say your brother is sure of this? Couldn't you have . . . ?"
"Proved it?" said Emily with vigor. "No. I tried." Emily was up on her elbow and he was too shocked to press her back into a position of rest. "How can I let Nan marry" cried Emily, "the very one—the one rotten evil soul in all this world—who killed her mother and let her father go to prison for it?"
"You can't," said Johnny horrified. (Oh, Lord, it's bad, he thought. Poor Nan.) But he had to think of Emily just now. "Hush, lie back. You're not going to let her marry him. Just tell Nan all this. That's all you really need to do.''
"And there goes," said Emily, "the meaning of my life and all of Clinton's sacrifice."
The room was quiet. He was vaguely aware of sounds out in the corridors, of lights and shadows in the windows of the next wing, across the narrow court between. He himself felt too shocked and sad to move or speak.
"But I can't tell her, Johnny," said Aunt Emily at last. "Not until Clinton knows. He must decide that she be told. You can see that?"
""Yes."
"So will you go to see him?"
;;Yes."
"And will you help Nan, afterwards?"
-Yes."
"The one wrong man in all the world . . . the one wrong man for Nan."
She looked so exhausted that he was frightened. "Put it o£F your mind," he said gently. "I will go to the prison and see your brother. I will tell him. I will ask him what he wants you and me to do. And then I will do it. Don't you fret any more. Nan will be all right, you know," he went on confidently.
"You'll stand by her, Johnny?"
"You and I and Dorothy and my Ma, and all of us will stand by her," he promised warmly. "And it won't be as
terrible as you think. Listen . . ." He was frantic to comfort her. "She's aheady had what you wanted for her. She didn't grow up in any shadow at all, but in full sun. She's been as well-raised as any child on earth. You've done the job, Emily. And because you've done it, she's going to be able to take this. You'll be proud of her."
"Thank you, Johnny," Emily said. Her face was relaxing. "God bless you, Johnny Sims. I hope you're right. Yes, thank you."
"You rest now," Johnny kissed her fondly. "Leave everything to me."
"I will," said Emily. "Dear Johnny. I feel much better now."
In a little while Johnny left her. His feet fell fatefully on the vinyl floor. In the corridor, he turned sharp and went out at the end of the wing. He was fiUed with dismay. Dismay.
He had no idea what the truth was about the old tragedy. It didn't make a lot of difference what the truth was. Nan was going to be torn in bits, whatever it was. And he wasn't at all sure how Nan could take it.
After Johnny had gone, Emily Padgett lay quietly. The storm in her Ij^art and mind seemed to have died to a sdd and^ yet rather a sweet calm.
He had left the door a trifle ajar and she could tell that the hospital was full of visitors. Feet came and went in the corridor. People laughed. The world had not come to an end, after all.
How right she had been to call on Johnny Sims. Dear reliable Johnny with the kind green eyes in the long-jawed face. Tall steady Johnny who had been brought up to do the one simple right and basic thing. To keep his word. Johnny would see Clinton. Tell him as gently as such things could be told. Johnny would look out for Nan. And there was truth in all he had said. To be tested as Nan would now be tested was not necessarily terrible.
If only Nan would turn to Johnny. Johnny had always been strength and shelter for her and all might be weU at last. And the truth told. The long lie wrung out to all its useful purpose and discarded.
So she sighed deep, and rested.
The door moved. A man came in and pushed it shut
behind him. For a moment, she thought Johnny had returned. What time is it? she thought in confusion. Is it morning?
He came toward the bed, moving quietly. He wore a hat. So she saw that he was not Johnny.
He was tall and big and his eyes were a cool gray. His mouth was cut large and full and almost too well, carved and curved like the mouth on a statue. He came around the bed, his back to the window, his face to the door.
"I thought it was you. Miss McCauley," he said. "Do you remember me?"
In seventeen years, he was not bigger, but the flesh on his face was not as fresh as she remembered it. "You're making Nan mighty unhappy," he chided.
"II" Emily raised up. "You'll never marry Clinton's child," she defied him. "Not you."
"Why not? Who blames her for her father's crime?"
Emily's heart was jumping in anger. "Your crime!"
"You still insist?" He sounded sorry and even weary. He turned and touched a cord at the window that tripped the Venetian blinds. "Why haven't you told her, then, what you think I did?"
"I will. I will," she blustered. She knew this wasn't good for her heart.
He stood looking down. He had not taken off his hat.
"You think you'll marry Christy's child?" said Emily with bitter triumph. "You never will."
"Oh, I don't think you'll tell her very much now," he said pleasantly. "You've missed yoiu' chance." His hands took the pillow's edge. "You shouldn't have come back."
"My brother will tell her," Emily said sharply.
"Maybe he'll try," said the big blond dangerous man. "But it will be too late." He jerked at the pillow. Her head bounced.
"No," said Emily feebly. "No use . . ."
"She doesn't know her father," the man said, quite softly and reasonably. "Why will she believe what he tells her? If he can find her, to tell her anything. There isn't any proof, you know. There never will be."
"Then . . ."
"Oh, I can't afford to have you mLxing her up before the wedding, Miss McCauley. There's a reason—"
Emily tried to reach the bell-push, but he didn't permit it. The pillow came down upon her face. The last thing she tliought in triumph and also in defeat was: "This proves it! At last!"
Richardson Bartee watched the time on his wrist. He took plenty of time. When enough had gone by, he put the pillow back where it had been before.
He crossed the very silent, the breathless room and opened the door 1by the shank of the handle, smearing the place where his fingers had to touch it. People were standing in doorways, talking. He dodged a red-haired woman in a mink jacket, hand to his hat, obscuring his face. He got the thirty feet to the door at the end of the wing. Then he was in the parking lot.
His car was not in the parking lot, but around the comer, snug to a flowering bush. It was only a rented car, of coiurse, but Dick Bartee hadn't risked more than he knew was necessary. He was older and wiser than he had been seventeen years ago.