"Yes, yes, Jerry; I know. Vandeman turned out to be Clayte." Then, noticing my bewilderment, "You see, Jim let it slip that Barbara's hurt. Where is she?" And Edwards leaned around to explain.
"When we came past Capehart's, and she wasn't there, I—"
"Oh, that's only a scratch," I hurried to assure the boy. "Barbara'll be all right."
"So Jim said," he agreed soberly. "I'm afraid you're both lying to me."
"All right," I climbed in beside him. "We'll go and see. She's up at your house—waiting for you."
As we headed away for the other end of town, he spoke again, half interrogatively,
"Vandeman shot her?" and when I nodded. "He's on his way to jail. I'm out. But I'm the man that's responsible for what's happened to her. Dragged her into this thing, in the first place. She hated those concentrating stunts; and I set her to do one at that woman's table. To help play my game—I risked her life."
I listened in wonder; sidelong, in the dimness, I studied the carriage of head and shoulders: no diminution of power; but a new use of it. This was not the crude boy who would knock everybody's plans to bits for a whim; Worth had found himself; and what a man!
"How does it look for recovering the money, Boyne?" Edwards questioned as we drove along.
I plunged into the hottest of that stuff Clayte-Vandeman had spilled, talked fascinatingly, as I thought, for three minutes, and paused to hear Worth say,