"Craig!" she whispered. "Craig!"
"I only just learned where you were. A reporter came to the studio, showed me his paper—"
"Falsehoods! They perverted my words—"
"I knew, I knew. I'm the one to blame, not you. If I'd gone home, stayed home, you would never have come here. Forgive me, Jean. I've been a fool."
"Hush," she said, laying a hand upon his lips. "We were both wrong. But I must have come to Amy. After what she told me last night, there was no choice. You'll understand when I explain. It's ghastly clear."
"But come away first. Don't give anyone a chance to ferret out your life, Jean. Why should you stay here now?"
A low, convulsive moan issued from the bedroom. Jean sprang to the door.
"Amy!" she called. "Don't be frightened. It's only Craig. Do you hear me? It was Craig who rang. I'll come to you soon."
Atwood followed to the little parlor.
"You see?" she said.