vis Rand and at the hands of the said
David Abercrombie Ritter ..." and "... the said Jefferson Davis Rand
and the said David Abercrombie Ritter, being in mortal fear for their
several lives, did so act in defense of their several persons..." and,
finally, "... the said Frederick Parker Dunmore did die."

The _Evening Mercury_, which sheet the said Jefferson Davis Rand had
once cost the loss of an expensive libel-suit and exposed in certain
journalistic malpractices verging upon blackmail, promptly burst into
print with an indignant editorial entitled _Trial by Pistol_. The
terms: "legalized slaughter," and "flagrant whitewash," were used, and
mention was made of "the well known preference of a certain notorious
private detective for the procedure of _habeas_ cadaver." The principal
result of this outcry was to persuade an important New Belfast
manufacturer, who had hitherto resisted Rand's sales pressure, to
contract with the Tri-State Agency for the protection of his payroll
deliveries.

Then, at the other end of the state, the professor of Moral Science at a
small theological seminary caught his wife in _flagrante delicto_ with
one of the fourth-year students and opened fire upon them, at a range of
ten feet, with a 12-gauge pump-gun. The Rosemont Bayonet Murder, already
pretty well withered on the vine, passed quietly into limbo.

* * * * *

Summer, almost a month before its official opening, was already a _fait
accompli_. The trees were in full leaf and invaded by nesting birds, the
air was fragrant with flower scents, and the mercury column of the
thermometer was stretching itself up toward the ninety mark.

They were all outside, where the long shadow of the Fleming house
fell across the lawn and driveway, gathered about the five parked cars.
The new Fleming butler, a short and somewhat globular Negro with a
gingerbread-crust complexion and an air of affable dignity, was helping
Pierre Jarrett and Karen Lawrence put a couple of cartons and a tall
peach-basket into Pierre's Plymouth. Colin MacBride, a streamer of
pipe-smoke floating back over his shoulder, was peering into his
luggage-compartment to check the stowage of his own cargo, while his
twelve-year-old son, Malcolm, another black Highlander like his
father, was helping Philip Cabot carry a big laundry hamper full of
newspaper-wrapped pistols to his Cadillac. Pierre's mother, and the
stylish-stout Mrs. Trehearne, and Glad