her anger had crushed into it. It was the first extra of the Star that night.
Henry's eyes drank in the scare-head: "Murder Mystery Solved—Henry Harrington accused—Astonishing Revelation."
"They can convict you, Henry," breathed Lahleet awesomely as she saw his eye at the end of the column.
Harrington wavered like a tree in a blast. "I believe you," he whispered hoarsely, and sank slowly into achair. "I believe you!" At last he too was frightened. Lahleet could barely repress a cry. It seemed so awful to see him frightened.
"Oh, Henry, you never can stand it. Nobody could. Your nerve will break—you'll go insane, you'll" She was wringing her hands and crying.
Harrington was pretty white, pretty desperate, but he shook his head doggedly. "It looks bad though," he admitted, "for the time being."
Lahleet found consolation by slipping one hand timidly into his. Harrington, unaware, sat scowling at the wall.
"Thanks, Lahleet; awfully good of you to come," he remembered to say when it was time for her to go, "but there's only one hope now. Billie! She'll come—the first thing in the morning. Once let her know about this murder charge and let her have the night to think it over, and she'll show 'em! That's where Scanlon overplayed his hand all right. She'll show 'em. She'll come the first thing in the morning."
Again the mask of Lahleet's face was sadly imperturbable; but: "That china doll will never come near him," she was scorning as she went down the steps. "He's spoiled now for her. He—he isn't ornamental
