speak.
Jevan, so only the bishop saw, put his hand upon her own so tightly it hurt and she repeated: “I, Dorcas Mary …” in a whisper.
Jevan’s voice was low too. Everything was very still except the low, mellow tones from the organ which seemed to move quietly but almost tangibly about her.
There was a ring—Jevan’s hands and the bishop’s and her own—now they were putting it on, slipping it firmly on the bare finger, and she remembered Cary slitting that left glove and her small, intent face bent over the task. That was only yesterday.
They were to kneel. She did so, Jevan again beside her.
The prayer was short. Were they to stand now? Yes, only she couldn’t. Jevan helped her. Jevan turned and took her hand firmly on his arm and great waves of melody swam about the church and lifted them out along the swelling tide, past faces, past bridesmaids, past everyone.
He was taking her swiftly through the vestibule. Willy Devany was holding the great outer door against the wind. His face was very white and he was crying, strangely and instead of congratulations, “Hurry—the car’s waiting—hurry.”
Grayson was at the door with the car. There were more faces, people along the sidewalk. Wind flapped the awning sharply over her head. Jevan gathered up her veil and she was in the car and a newsboy wriggled under somebody’s arm and shouted: “News—news—all about …” and thrust a paper at them.
There were black headlines on that paper, too, and Dorcas saw them and they said: RONALD DREW MURDERED.
“Hurry, Grayson. Never mind the cops. Get going,” cried Jevan and jumped into the car beside her.
He jerked down the rear shade and put his arm tightly, brusquely around her and pulled her close to him, so his mouth was at her cheek.
“Don’t say anything,” he said, watching Grayson. “The chauffeur will hear. I know you killed him.”
CHAPTER 6
T HE CAR MOVED SMOOTHLY and rapidly ahead and his arm held her so tightly against him that she couldn’t move. In a queer little top layer of her mind which went right on thinking about the small surface things such as the rain against the car windows and Grayson’s stiff neck and neat cap, and the long two-noted whistle of the traffic policeman at the corner—in that top layer she had an odd notion that if she spoke he would stop her, cover her mouth with his hand if need be.
It was, in that first instant or two, her only recognition of the thing. Ronald, said the newspapers, was murdered. It wasn’t suicide, it was a murder. And Jevan had said he knew …
“No, no, no ——”
“Stop that!” He thrust her back against the seat and leaned forward toward the dividing window, which was open. “How does this thing work?” He found the lever and turned it rapidly. A sheet of glass lifted smoothly between the driver’s seat and the tonneau of the long, gliding car. He sat back again beside her, glanced at her once and said: “All right. He can’t hear unless you have hysterics or something. Now listen, Dorcas. I know you killed Ronald. I don’t blame you; he was a scoundrel and you—never mind that. I only want you to know——”
“I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left the apartment. He—he pushed the telephone off the table. He was alive——”
“Does anybody else know you were there?”
“No. Yes—that is, there was a doorman, I think…You don’t understand. I knew nothing of this. I——”
“The doorman! Did he know you? I mean, had you—had you been there often enough for him to know and recognize you?”
He wasn’t looking at her now; he was watching the traffic ahead grimly, his mouth tight, his profile remote and enigmatic. There was a sweet heavy fragrance from her bouquet in her lap. Her satin train was over her knees, her white veil floating around her, obscuring her vision; there was the small sprig of lily of the valley in his buttonhole. His silk hat and gloves lay on the seat beside him. The car
Jevan, so only the bishop saw, put his hand upon her own so tightly it hurt and she repeated: “I, Dorcas Mary …” in a whisper.
Jevan’s voice was low too. Everything was very still except the low, mellow tones from the organ which seemed to move quietly but almost tangibly about her.
There was a ring—Jevan’s hands and the bishop’s and her own—now they were putting it on, slipping it firmly on the bare finger, and she remembered Cary slitting that left glove and her small, intent face bent over the task. That was only yesterday.
They were to kneel. She did so, Jevan again beside her.
The prayer was short. Were they to stand now? Yes, only she couldn’t. Jevan helped her. Jevan turned and took her hand firmly on his arm and great waves of melody swam about the church and lifted them out along the swelling tide, past faces, past bridesmaids, past everyone.
He was taking her swiftly through the vestibule. Willy Devany was holding the great outer door against the wind. His face was very white and he was crying, strangely and instead of congratulations, “Hurry—the car’s waiting—hurry.”
Grayson was at the door with the car. There were more faces, people along the sidewalk. Wind flapped the awning sharply over her head. Jevan gathered up her veil and she was in the car and a newsboy wriggled under somebody’s arm and shouted: “News—news—all about …” and thrust a paper at them.
There were black headlines on that paper, too, and Dorcas saw them and they said: RONALD DREW MURDERED.
“Hurry, Grayson. Never mind the cops. Get going,” cried Jevan and jumped into the car beside her.
He jerked down the rear shade and put his arm tightly, brusquely around her and pulled her close to him, so his mouth was at her cheek.
“Don’t say anything,” he said, watching Grayson. “The chauffeur will hear. I know you killed him.”
CHAPTER 6
T HE CAR MOVED SMOOTHLY and rapidly ahead and his arm held her so tightly against him that she couldn’t move. In a queer little top layer of her mind which went right on thinking about the small surface things such as the rain against the car windows and Grayson’s stiff neck and neat cap, and the long two-noted whistle of the traffic policeman at the corner—in that top layer she had an odd notion that if she spoke he would stop her, cover her mouth with his hand if need be.
It was, in that first instant or two, her only recognition of the thing. Ronald, said the newspapers, was murdered. It wasn’t suicide, it was a murder. And Jevan had said he knew …
“No, no, no ——”
“Stop that!” He thrust her back against the seat and leaned forward toward the dividing window, which was open. “How does this thing work?” He found the lever and turned it rapidly. A sheet of glass lifted smoothly between the driver’s seat and the tonneau of the long, gliding car. He sat back again beside her, glanced at her once and said: “All right. He can’t hear unless you have hysterics or something. Now listen, Dorcas. I know you killed Ronald. I don’t blame you; he was a scoundrel and you—never mind that. I only want you to know——”
“I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left the apartment. He—he pushed the telephone off the table. He was alive——”
“Does anybody else know you were there?”
“No. Yes—that is, there was a doorman, I think…You don’t understand. I knew nothing of this. I——”
“The doorman! Did he know you? I mean, had you—had you been there often enough for him to know and recognize you?”
He wasn’t looking at her now; he was watching the traffic ahead grimly, his mouth tight, his profile remote and enigmatic. There was a sweet heavy fragrance from her bouquet in her lap. Her satin train was over her knees, her white veil floating around her, obscuring her vision; there was the small sprig of lily of the valley in his buttonhole. His silk hat and gloves lay on the seat beside him. The car
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