Even Robert Vining halted his death march. A man of but one idea in the world just a second ago, he jerked about suddenly and cried:
"Dick?"
Dalton a strong man half-benumbed by mental agony, turned slowly upon him.
"Are you—here, too, Robert?" he muttered. "Yes, Dicky!"
And slowly he turned back to Anthony and, slowly also, he drew forth the automatic in all its steely-blue nastiness.
"Well, Fry?"
Anthony Fry merely shook his head. The mood that was come upon him now passed any explanation; he was neither frightened nor excited. He heard the latest absurd accusation without even forming an opinion on it. Either he had passed the point where one may feel the sensation of astonishment or infinite desperation had blessed him with a calm past any understanding. He did not know which and he did not care; it was enough that he could look straight at Dalton and not even change color!
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Dalton," he said quietly.
Beatrice leaped into action.
"Dalton!" she cried. "Mary Dalton's father?"