suddenly came the sound of the shot, the stinging, burning feeling in my
side. It knocked my body down; but my mind came clear; I could use it."

"I'll say you could," I smiled. "From then on, Bill Capehart and I were
the lumps of flesh that you heaved around without explanation."

"There wasn't time; and I was afraid you'd find out what had happened to
me, and wouldn't bring me here," she said simply. "I knew that the one
motive for silencing me was the work I'd been doing for Mr. Boyne."

"Sure," I said, light breaking on me. "And every possible suspect in the
Gilbert murder case was under this roof--or supposed to be--the grand
march would be the show-down as to that. And just then the clock struck!
Poor girl!"

"It was a race against time," Barbara agreed. "If we could get here
first, hold the door against whoever came flying to get in, we'd have
the one who shot me."

"But, Barbara child," Laura Bowman was working at a sweater sleeve on
the bandaged side. "You did get here and caught Bronson Vandeman; it had
worked out all right. Why did you risk sitting up in that strained pose,
wounded as you were, to concentrate?"

"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 o