hold myself more than another
second or two!"

By way of proving it, he stalked down upon Johnson Boller--not rapidly,
but with a deadly slowness and deliberation which suggested the tiger
coming down upon its prey. His flaring eyes had fascinated the victim,
too, for Johnson Boller could not move a muscle. Once he tried to smile
a farewell at Beatrice; his eyes would not remain away from Robert even
long enough for that. Once he tried to look at Anthony, but it was quite
useless.

And from that ominous region of the doorway came Wilkins's warm tones:

"Well, that's all right, gentlemen, but he's busy now."

"He's not too busy to see me," said an entirely strange voice, and heavy
steps passed by Wilkins.

Into the large room which had already seen so much suffering, the
distinctly scared person of Hobart Hitchin was propelled by a large,
hairy hand. The owner of the hand glanced at him for an instant; and
then for five terrific seconds stared at Anthony Fry, who after the
first violent start had turned immobile as Johnson Boller himself.

"Mr.--what's your name?--Hitchin!" Dalton barked.

Hobart Hitchin straightened up with an effort.

"Fry," said he, "we--er--that is, I accuse you of the--ah--murder of
Theodore Dalton's only son, Richard, alias David Prentiss!"

CHAPTER XVI

The Lie

Even Robert Vining halted his death march. A man of but one idea in the
world just a second ago, he jerked about suddenly and cried:

"_Dick?_"

Dalton a strong man half-benumbed by mental agony, turned slowly upon
him.

"Are you--here, too, Robert?" he muttered. "Yes, Dicky!"

And slowly he turned back to Anthony and, slowly also, he drew forth the
automatic in all its steely-blue nastiness.

"Well, Fry?"

Anthony Fry merely shook his head. The mood that was come upon him now
passed any explanation; he was neither frightened nor excited. He heard
the latest absurd accusation without even forming an opinion on it.
Either he had passed the point where one may feel the sensation of
astonishment or infinite desperation had blessed him with a calm past
any understanding. He did not know which and he did not care; it was
enough that he could look straight at Dalton and not even change color!

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Dalton," he said quietly.

Beatrice leaped into action.

"Dalton!" she cried. "Mary Dalton's father?"

"What?" Dalton, momentarily sidetracked, whirled upon her. "You've heard