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She made this very clear
to herself, because she had a morbid fancy that Chris might be
watching her. There were people who believed that sort of thing.
To her excited fancy it seemed as though Chris's cynical smile might
flash out from any dusky corner.
She knew she was not being quite rational. Which was strange,
because she felt so strong, and because the voice with which she
called Clayton's number was so steady. She knew, too, that she was
no longer in love with Clay, because his steady voice over the
telephone left her quite calm and unmoved.
"I want you to come up, Clay," she said. "If you can, easily."
"I can come at once. Is anything wrong?"
"Chris has been killed," she replied, and hung up the receiver.
Then she sat down to wait, and to watch for Chris's cynical smile
to flash in some dusky corner.
Clayton found her there, collapsed in her chair, a slim, gray-faced
girl with the rouge giving a grotesque vitality to her bloodless
cheeks. She got up very calmly and gave him the cablegram.


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