Since seven that morning, at which time Mary's absence had been discovered, Theodore Dalton had been breathing in terrible, spasmodic gasps. Now, as he faced Anthony, he breathed deeply—breathed deeply again—and turned Anthony's tottering world quite upside down by suddenly thrusting out his hand.
"Well, by gad, Fry!" he bellowed. "I knew you were crazy, but I never suspected you were man enough for that! I'd swallowed that tale almost whole and I'd made up my mind to wipe you and your bottled mess off the map together."
"I know," said Anthony.
"But if there's one thing that hits me right where I live," vociferated Dalton, "it's a man who will chuck his own every earthly interest aside to save a woman's name and—put it there, Fry! You're a man!"
A little uncertainly, because he was dazed and dizzy, Anthony grasped the hairy hand. It was not so, because it was impossible, but—he and Dalton were friends!
Beatrice was within a yard of her husband.
"Then there was—was nothing——" she faltered.
"There was nothing to get excited about—no," Johnson Boller said stiffly. "Not at any time."
"Pudgy!" Beatrice said chokily, because her volatile nature was whizzing breathlessly down from the exalted murder-state to the depths of contrition.
"Well? What?" Johnson Boller said coldly.