From the Housetops

by George Barr McCutcheon

"I am terribly distressed about something, Dr. Bates," said Braden, uneasily. "I wish you would tell me everything that Anne had to say to you."

"Well, for one thing, she said that she knew you would do everything in your power to bring about a successful result. She seemed vastly relieved when I told her that you had done all that mortal man could do. I don't believe she has the faintest idea that—that an accident occurred. Now that I think of it, she did stop me when I undertook to convince her that your bark is worse than your bite, young man,—in other words, that your theories are for conversational and not practical purposes. Yes, she cut me off rather sharply. I hadn't attached any importance to her—See here, Braden," he demanded suddenly, "is there any reason why she should have cut me off like that? Had she cause to feel that you might have put into practice your—your—Come, come, you know what I mean." He was leaning forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arm-rests.

"She is more or less in sympathy with my views," said Braden warily. "Of course, you could not expect her to be in sympathy with them in this case, however." He put it out as a feeler.

"Well, I should say not!" exclaimed Dr. Bates. "It's conceivable that she may have been in some doubt, however, until I reassured her. By George, I am just beginning to see through her, Braden. She had me down there to—to set her mind at rest about—about you. 'Pon my soul, she did it neatly, too."

"And she believes—you think she believes that her mind is at rest?"

"That's an odd question. What do you mean?"

"Just that. Does she believe that you told her the truth?"

"Oh! I see. Well, a doctor has to tell a good many lies in the course of a year. He gets so that he can tell them with a straighter face than when he's telling the truth. I don't see why Mrs. Thorpe should doubt my word—my professional word—unless there is some very strong reason for doing so." He continued to eye Braden keenly. "Do you know of any reason?"

Thorpe by this time was able to collect himself. The primal instinct to unburden himself to this old, understanding friend, embraced sturdy, outspoken argument in defence of his act, but this defence did not contemplate the possible inclusion of Anne. He was now satisfied that she had not delivered herself into the confidence of Dr. Bates. She had kept her secret close. It was not for him to make revelations. The newly aroused fear that even this good old friend might attach an unholy design to their motives impelled him to resort to equivocation, if not to actual falsehood. This was a side to the matter that had not been considered by him till now. But he was now acutely aware of an ugly conviction that she had thought of it afterwards, just as he was thinking of it now, hence her failure to repeat to Dr. Bates the substance of their discussion before the operation took place.

He experienced an unaccountable, disquieting sensation of guilt, of complicity in an evil deed, of a certain slyness that urged him to hide something from this shrewd old man. To his utter amazement, he was saying to himself that he must not "squeal" on Anne, his partner! He now knew that he could never speak of what had passed between himself and Anne. Of his own part in the affair he could speak frankly with this man, and with all men, and be assured that no sinister motive would be attributed to him. He would be free from the slightest trace of suspicion so long as he stood alone in accounts of the happenings of the day before. No matter how violent the criticism or how bitter the excoriation, he would at least be credited with honest intentions. But the mere mention of Anne's name would be the signal for a cry from the housetops, and all the world would hear. And Anne's name would sound the death knell of "honest intentions."