ng and jingling, in through a door that
he left open behind him, pulled off his Roman helmet as though it had
been a hat, and stood unconsciously fumbling that shoe-brush thing they
trim those ancient lids with.

"Barbara," he met the eyes of the girl in the chair unflinchingly, "you
told me last night that the only words I ever could speak to you would
be in the way of an apology. Will you hear one now? I'm ready to make
it. Talk doesn't count much; but I'm going the limit to put Worth
Gilbert's release through."

There was a long silence, Barbara looking at him quite unmoved. Behind
that steady gaze lay the facts that Worth Gilbert's life and honor had
been threatened by this man's course; that she herself was only alive
because the bullet of that criminal whom his action unconsciously
shielded missed its aim by an inch: Worth's life, her life, their love
and all that might mean--and Barbara had eyes you could read--I didn't
envy Cummings as he faced her. Finally she said quietly,

"I'll accept your apology, Mr. Cummings, when Worth is free."

CHAPTER XXX

A CONFESSION

In the dingy office of the city prison, with its sand boxes and barrel
stove, its hacked old desks, dusty books and papers, I watched Bronson
Vandeman, and wondered to see how the man I had known played in and out
across his face with the man Edward Clayte, whom I had tried to imagine,
whom nobody could describe.

Helping to recover Clayte's loot for Worth Gilbert looked to the
opposition their best bet for squaring themselves. Dykeman from his sick
bed, had dug us up a stenographer; Cummings had climbed out of his tin
clothes and come along with us to the jail. They wanted the screws put
on; but I intended to handle Vandeman in my own way. I had halted the
lawyer on the lock-up threshold, with,

"Cummings, I want you to keep still in here. When I'm done with the man,
you can question him all you want--if he's left anything to be told." I
answered a doubtful look, "Did you see his face there in the ball room
as he looked up at Barbara Wallace? He thinks that girl knows
everything, like a supreme being. He's still so shaken that he'd spill
out anything--everything. He'll hardly suppose he's telling us anything
we don't know."

And Vandeman bore out expectations. Now, provided with a raincoat to
take the place of his Mandarin robe, his trousers still the lilac satin
ones of that costume, he surveyed us and our preparations with a half