have seen all that happened and could have given Gerard's
mechanician the lie? I've not seen Corrie except across the room," the
recollection of that ghastly room broke the speech. "We have got to wait
until he comes home to answer."

Flavia slipped her hand into his, nestling to him, and he put his arm
about her. Both were remembering Corrie's brief, simoon-hot tempers, his
hasty tongue and ready hand--and swift repentances. Had an occasion come
when the repentance was too late, too vain! And what repentance! To the
sister who knew with life-long knowledge the ardent, passionate Corrie,
his young rigidity in honor and high pride, his tenacious affections,
this menaced downfall was almost as appalling as his death. She thrust
the possibility from her with revolted condemnation of herself for
crediting this libel, this slander of her brother. What had he ever done
to justify such a belief?

"Papa, he could not!" she defended. "Corrie could not. Not, not
_Corrie_!"

"I hope not, my girl."

Something in his tone, some quality she did not recognize, brought her
gaze to his face with a fresh dread. What would it mean to Thomas Rose,
if this were true of his son? And what would the change in Thomas Rose
mean to Corrie?

The early autumn dusk had fallen and the lamps were lit, when Corrie
came home. The routine of the household had gone on through the long
day; under the eye of convention, Flavia and Mr. Rose had dressed for
dinner and now sat together in the drawing-room, each holding an unread
book. But at the closing of the outer door both started erect, pretense
forgotten.

"Corrie!" his father summoned. Not Corwin B.; by a trick of usage the
nickname had become formal, the formal name a playfulness not to be
spoken now.

Corrie came quietly between the velvet curtains. He still wore the pink
racing costume, its hue in marked contrast to his worn young face. That
one day had drawn white lines about his boyish mouth and set black
circles under his blue eyes. As if feeling himself on trial, he stopped
just within the room and stood with the quiescent endurance that he had
shown in the farmhouse parlor and which sat so strangely upon him.

"First--Gerard?" required Mr. Rose hardly. "You've been there?"

"Yes, sir. They say he will live."

"Live! What----"

"They say he will never drive again."

Flavia cried out faintly, grasping the arms of her chair, and there was
a pause.

"I've heard Rupert's story, and