The woman at the table went on writing for a second or two.
"Yes," she said at last, with her head a little on one side as she studied the sheet in front of her.
"Then we'll put it on the slide and see how it looks," answered Lambert. He took the sheet from her, adjusted it in the lantern, and turned on the light.
An undeniable tingle crept up and down Kestner's backbone as he read the words on the screen. It was, to the eje, his own handwriting. It would and could be accepted as his own. Not one person in a thousand would even stop to question its authenticity.
The woman named Maura, who had been supporting herself with one hand on the end of the table, turned and faced Lambert.
"Are you going to kill him?"
It was spoken so quietly that Kestner could scarcely hear it. But the last of the colour had gone from the woman's face, and her eyes, as she spoke, took on an animal-like translucence.
"On the contrary," was Lambert's calm retort, "he is going to kill himself."
"Why?" demanded the woman.
"Because, as he himself says, he's tired of living. He confesses that in this paper he's leaving behind. And he's proved it by invading our home the way he did. Homes have to be protected. And I intend to protect mine."
"You're not protecting it," she contended.
"Well, I'm making a stab at it—and a stab at saving your neck at the same time!"
"Oh, what's the good of all this!" cried the white-
