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Rue…” and kissed her.
    Kissed her long and hard and drew away to look into her face through the dark and then kissed her again.
    When Brule kissed her he did it swiftly, formally, when others were watching and he had to — a mere brush against her cheek.
    Brule. She moved to escape Andy’s arms and he held her.
    “Nothing matters now, Rue, but you. Don’t think of Brule. Think of yourself. I love you so, dear. You — you were married to Brule so suddenly, no one knew. I didn’t know anything of it until he told me — and then it was too late; it was the day before your marriage. What could I do?… You must have known I loved you, Rue.”
    Unwillingly, irresistibly, she replied.
    “No…”
    “Back in the days when you were at the hospital — remember? I used to watch for you when I went along the halls and sat at the chart desk. Among all the white uniforms and white caps I always knew the little square set of your shoulders; the smooth knot of gold hair under your perky little cap. I used to make excuses to talk to you; I would complain a little of this or that — and hope the other nurses would leave so I could talk to you alone. I — I didn’t know for a long time that I was in love with you. Not till just before Crystal’s illness.”
    “Crystal…” said Rue. Crystal, Crystal; Crystal’s car that he knew so well; the scent of roses that still clung to it; Crystal.
    He relinquished her slowly. For a moment he said nothing; his profile was a clear silhouette against the area of light under a street lamp outside the window. They passed on into shadow, and he said: “Crystal. So that was it. How can I convince you? And there’s so little time. You must go with me, Rue. At once. There’s no other way.”
    She felt all at once quite cool and collected; frightened, conscious of catastrophe, but conscious also of the need to gird herself to meet it. She said:
    “That would be running away. Leaving Brule when he needs me.”
    “Brule!” cried Andy. “Rue, you don’t understand —”
    “We can’t leave, Andy. I understand that. It would be mad. It would be — would be like a confession of guilt.”
    Afterwards she remembered those moments, though at the time they were disjointed, confused, full of incoherent, futile argument. They plunged through darkened streets, they glided along lighted theaters, they paused for traffic lights; she was clearly conscious of only one thing out of the turmoil, and that was the necessity to resist Andy, to go home, to wait for Brule. Brule was never at a loss for expedient; Brule always knew what to do. Brule had the sharpest, shrewdest worldly wisdom, and he had, too, a certain ruthlessness which would stand them all in hand now. Besides, Brule was her husband.
    Andy was at last beaten down, sullen, silent. They reached the Hatterick house, and Brule’s coupé was not in front of the door.
    “For the last time, Rue,” began Andy. “Believe me, I’m only thinking of you.”
    “But it’s the wrong way, Andy. We’ve got to face the thing. If it’s true — if she was really murdered —”
    The car had stopped, and Kendal opened the door. She said to him: “Will you take Doctor Crittenden to his apartment, Kendal, please.”
    But Andy was already out of the car and putting up his hands to assist her. Through her gloves she was absurdly conscious of the warmth and strength of his hands and the way he held her own a second too long.
    “Don’t bother, Kendal,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll walk.” He went up the steps with Rue and rang the bell.
    She would not ask him to come in and to wait for Brule if he were not yet there. There was some obscure but important reason for not doing so.
    Kendal, a stolid, silent figure, got into the car again, and it moved away. Andy said:
    “Perhaps I was wrong, Rue; I suppose the thing to do is stay here and face it. Flight — does seem melodramatic. Crazy. But — but you don’t know —” He stopped short. “All