e.
Jones' trained eye--the eye of a novelist--gathered these things which
it dropped in that bag which the subconscious is. Meanwhile the car,
scattering children, tooted, turned and stopped before a leprous door.

In the hall, a girl of twelve, with the face of a seraph, and the voice
of a fiend, was shrieking at a switchboard. Jones fearing, if he
addressed her, that she might curse him, went on and up, higher, still
higher, and began to feel quite birdlike. On the successive landings
were doors and he wondered what tragedies, what comedies, what aims,
lofty, mean or merely diabolic, they concealed. They were all labelled
with names, Hun or Hebrew, usually both. But one name differed. It
caressed.

There he rang.

When it opened, a strawberry mouth opened also. "Oh!" Cassy's blue eyes
were red. There was fright in them. "It is horrible! Tell me, do you
think it was he?"

Jones removed his hat. "I know it was not."

That mouth opened again, opened for breath, opened with relief. Gasping,
she stared. "Thank God! I was afraid----But are you sure? It was I who
told him--I thought it my fault. It was killing me. Tell me. Are you
really sure?"

Jones motioned. "His lawyer is. I have just seen him."

"He is! Thank God then! Thank God! And my father! It has made him ill.
He liked him so! I am going for medicine now. Will you go in and speak
to him?"

She turned and called. "It is Mr. Jones--a friend of Mr. Lennox." She
turned again. "I will be back in a minute."

Beyond, in the room with the piano and the painted warrior, the musician
lay on a sofa, bundled in a rug. There was not much space on the sofa,
yet, as Jones entered, he seemed to recede. Then, cavernously, he spoke.

"Forgive me for not rising. This business has been too much for me. Sit
down."

Jones put his hat on the table and drew a chair. "I am sorry it has
upset you. It amounts to nothing."

Perplexedly the musician repeated it. "Nothing?"

"I was referring to our friend Lennox."

"You call his arrest nothing?"

"Well, everything is relative. It may seem unusual to be held without
bail and yet, if we all were, it would be commonplace."

The musician plucked at the rug. "I suppose everybody thinks he did it?"

"Everybody, no. I don't think so and I am sure your daughter doesn't."

"I wish she would hurry."

"Nor do you."

"No, I don't think so."

"I doubt if the police do either."

"After jailing him!"

Jones, who had been taking