Dick nodded and walked out on Paula’s sleeping porch to listen for the exhaust of the racing machine Callahan drove. He heard the ranch limousine arrive leisurely and swiftly depart. Graham came out on the porch to him.
“I want to apologize, Forrest,” he said. “I was rather off for the moment. I found you here, and I thought you were here when it happened. It must have been an accident.’”
“Poor little kid,” Dick agreed. “And she so prided herself on never being careless with guns.”
“I’ve looked at the rifle,” Graham said, “but I couldn’t find anything wrong with it.”
“And that’s how it happened. Whatever was wrong got right. That’s how it went off.”
And while Dick talked, building the fabric of the lie so that even Graham should be fooled, to himself he was understanding how well Paula had played the trick. That last singing of the “Gypsy Trail” had been her farewell to Graham and at the same time had provided against any suspicion on his part of what she had intended directly to do. It had been the same with him. She had had her farewell with him, and, the last thing, over the telephone, had assured him that she would never have any man but him in all the world.
He walked away from Graham to the far end of the porch.
“She had the grit, she had the grit,” he muttered to himself with quivering lips. “Poor kid. She couldn’t decide between the two, and so she solved it this way.”
The noise of the racing machine drew him and Graham together, and together they entered the room to wait for the doctor. Graham betrayed unrest, reluctant to go, yet feeling that he must.
“Please stay on, Evan,” Dick told him. “She liked you much, and if she does open her eyes she’ll be glad to see you.”