he did not want it. What she wanted was bed
and the blanket of long, dreamless sleep. It could not be too long. She
was tired, as he had said, but more so than he knew, tired with the
immense fatigue that emotions and their crises create.

She moved over to where he sat. Several minutes had gone since he spoke
yet it seemed to her but the moment before.

"Yes, I am tired, but you're a good daddy and I love you."

She bent over him, went to the kitchen, got a glass of milk and a
biscuit, which she carried to her room, where she opened the window and
closed the door.

Long later, when she awoke, it was with the consciousness of something
there, something waiting, something evil, something that had jeered and
pummelled her in her sleep. But what? Then, instantly, she knew. A
palace of falsehoods had tumbled about her and the lies had laughed and
bruised her as they fell. They had been laughing and falling the whole
night through.

The light distracted her. In the morning, because of the building
opposite, her room was dark. Now it was bright. The sun had scaled the
roof. A gleam looked in and told her it was noon.

How could I have slept so long? she wondered. She put some things on and
opening the door smelled coffee. The poor dear! she thought, he had to
make it himself.

She went on into the living-room. There her father sat. On the table
before him was a paper.

Without speaking he pointed at a headline. The letters squirmed. They
leaped and sprang at her. From before them she backed. But what
nonsense! It was impossible. She could not believe it. Yet there it was!
Abruptly there also was something else. An electric chair, the man of
all men in it!

From before the horror of that she reeled, steadied herself, looked at
her father, looked without seeing him.

"God of gods! And I did it!"

XXVIII

In high red boots, wide purple breeches and a yellow mandarin jacket,
Jones entered the workshop.

His appearance did not alarm him. He was invisible. Lloyd George and
Clemenceau might have called. Mr. Ten Eyck Jones was not at home, sir.
If necessary he was dead. Always, while he dressed, his servant put,
unseen, a tray on the workshop table and, still unseen, disappeared.
With the tray was the morning paper and the usual letters, which Jones
never read. Morning in the workshop meant work. No interruptions
permitted. On one occasion the house got on fire. His servant did not
venture to tell him, thoug