The Philadelphia Murder Story by Leslie Ford Page B

little. The unbelievable thing was that she was standing too. Her face was half turned from us, her back was straight as an arrow, and she moved back and forth, not even a cane in her hand, as able to walk as Monk or I. Her voice was clear as a bell in the silent house, and vibrant with intensity.
    “You killed Douglas Elliot, Nathaniel. There’s no use trying to evade it. The document Laurel gave Myron Kane—”
    Monk Whitney caught my arm in a tighter hold and drew me out of the focus of the mirror and down the stairs. The blood was beating in my ears; I couldn’t have heard any more, even if anyone had needed to hear more. We got outside. He stood holding the doorknob, letting it slip softly to. Then he leaned unsteadily for a moment against the stone frame, his face quite white. It seemed from ages to infinity before either of us moved, and then we just looked at each other.
    “I can’t ask you not to say anything,” he said. The words were twisted and tortured.
    “Oh, I won’t,” I whispered. “I promise I won’t, ever.”
    He held out his hand and grasped mine. Then he turned and pressed the doorbell. He was gone when the butler came.
    I hadn’t even seen him go. He’d gone as quickly and as quietly as if he’d been slipping through some South Pacific jungle.
    I went upstairs slowly. It was as quiet as the grave. Mrs. Whitney’s door was open and her lights were on. I could see her lying on the yellow cushions, her bright sharp eyes watching me intently in the mirror.
    “Come in, Dear Child,” she called as I passed the door.
    I think it was the hardest thing I ever did in my life. I don’t think I’ll ever have anything so hard to do again. I rubbed my face with my hands to get a little color back, steadied my shaking knees and went in.
    “Where on Earth have you Been, Dear Child? I was Alarmed about you. Your Policeman telephoned three times. But don’t tell me now, I am very Tired. Good night. Dear Myron isn’t in yet Either. You keep such odd hours in Washington, Dear Child.”
    I got out and went upstairs. I hadn’t seen Judge Whitney. It seemed odd to think of his hiding in a closet somewhere, waiting for me to close my door, so he could slip out and home. It was more than odd, it was ghastly, and so was the whole thing. I shut my door and sat down on the side of the bed. I couldn’t stop shaking enough to get my coat off, and for hours after I got into bed I lay there, freezing and unable to get warm.
    Why had Abigail Whitney pretended for all those years that she was bedridden? What had kept her there, lying all day on her yellow cushions, watching in her mirrors, getting up at night, so her muscles wouldn’t atrophy, and—who could tell?—perhaps even slipping out and wandering alone in the empty darkness of the square?
    I lay there listening. Myron Kane still hadn’t come in. I wondered where he could have gone, and then I wondered what could be in the letter Albert Toplady had given me in the taxi that was ruinous enough for Myron to be willing to barter the knowledge he had of Judge Whitney for it. And incredible as it must seem, it struck me then, for the first time, that the reason Myron had gone to Travis Elliot was not that Travis was a lawyer, but that he was the son of the man Judge Whitney had killed. And Travis Elliot didn’t know it. Myron hadn’t told him what he was going to see the district attorney for. I was sure of that. If he had, Travis could never have received Judge Whitney as warmly as he had done-—not in his father’s own house, not so soon after he had learned anything so ghastly. It seemed suddenly to take on a kind of tragic irony. They were all appealing to Travis to help them protect his father’s murderer. And Judge Whitney’s demand that Albert Toplady’s letter to Myron be returned to him—he’d wait up for it, he’d said—had a new and astonishing significance. It was not to save Myron, as I’d thought it was, that he’d come. It was to