position came with a rush of sick terror.
"Get hold of yourself," Graham said. "Come back."
Bobby opened his eyes. He was in the upper hall at the head of the stairs. Unconsciously he had been about to
creep quietly down, perhaps to the library. Graham had awakened him. It seemed to offer the answer to
everything. It seemed to give outline to a monstrous familiar that drowned his real self in the black pit while it
conducted his body to the commission of unspeakable crimes.
He lurched into the bedroom and sat shivering on the bed. Graham entered and quietly closed the door.
"What time is it?" Bobby asked hoarsely.
"Half-past two. I don't think Robinson was aroused."
The damp moon gave an ominous unreality to the room.
"What did I do?" Bobby whispered.
"Got softly out of bed and went to the hall. It was uncanny. You were like an automaton. I didn't wake you at
once. You see, I--I thought you might go to the old room."
Bobby shook again. He drew a blanket about his shoulders.
"And you believed I'd show the way in and out, but the room was empty, so I was going downstairs--"
He shuddered.
"Good God! Then it's all true. I did it for the money. I put Howells out to protect myself. I was going after
Robinson. It's true. Hartley! Tell me. Do you think it's true?"
Graham turned away.
"Don't ask me to say anything to help you just now," he answered huskily, "for after this I don't dare, Bobby. I
don't dare."Bobby returned to his bed. He lay there still shivering, beneath the heavy blankets. "I don't dare!" He echoed
Graham's words. "There's nothing else any one can say. I must decide what to do. I must think it over."
But, as always, thought brought no release. It merely insisted that the case against him was proved. At last he
had been seen slipping unconsciously from his room--and at the same hour. All that remained was to learn
how he had accomplished the apparent miracles. Then no excuse would remain for not going to Robinson and
confessing. The woman at the lake and in the courtyard, the movement of the body and the vanishing of the
evidence under his hand, Paredes's odd behaviour, all became in his mind puzzling details that failed to
obscure the chief fact. After this something must be done about Paredes's detention.
He hadn't dreamed that his weariness could placate even momentarily such reflections, but at last he slept
again. He was aroused by the tramping of men around the house, and strange, harsh voices. He raised himself
on his elbow and glanced from the window. It had long been daylight. Two burly fellows in overalls, carrying
pick and spade across their shoulders, pushed through the underbrush at the edge of the clearing. He turned.
Graham, fully dressed, stood at the side of the bed.
"Those men?" Bobby asked wearily.
"The grave diggers," Graham answered. "They are going to work in the old cemetery to prepare a place for
Silas Blackburn with his fathers. That's why I've come to wake you up. The minister's telephoned Katherine.
He will be here before noon. Do you know it's after ten o'clock?"
For some time Bobby stared through the window at the desolate, ragged landscape. It was abnormally cold
even for the late fall. Dull clouds obscured the sun and furnished an illusion of crowding earthward.
"A funereal day."
The words slipped into his mind. He repeated them.
"When your grandfather's buried," Graham answered softly, "we'll all feel happier."
"Why?" Bobby asked. "It won't lessen the fact of his murder."
"Time," Graham said, "lessens such facts--even for the police."
Bobby glanced at him, flushing.
"You mean you've decided to stand by me after what happened last night?"
Graham smiled.
"I've thought it all over. I slept like a top last night. I heard nothing. I saw nothing."
"Ought I to want you to stand by me?" Bobby said. "Oughtn't I to make a clean breast of it? At least I must do
something about Paredes."
Graham frowned