“But it’s fraud, in this case,” retorted Average Jones. “A fraud of which you’re self-convicted. Get up.” He himself rose and stepped back, but his eye was intent, and his muscles were in readiness.
There was no more fight in judge “Oily” Ackroyd. He slunk to the stairs and limped heavily down to his frightened and sobbing wife. Miss Graham leaned against the wall, white and spent. Average Jones, his heart in his eyes, took a step forward.
“No!” she said peremptorily. “Don’t touch me. I shall be all right.”
“Do you mind my saying,” said he, very low, “that you are the bravest and finest human being I’ve met in a—a somewhat varied career.”
The girl shuddered. “I could have stood it all,” she said, “but for those awful, crawling, red creatures.”
“Those?” said Average Jones. “Why, they were my bloodhounds, my little detectives. There’s nothing very awful about those, Sylvia. They’ve done their work as nature gave ’em to do it. I knew that as soon as they got out, they would find the trail.”
“And what are they?”
“Carrion beetles,” said Average Jones. “Where the vultures of the insect kingdom are gathered together, there the quarry lies.”
Sylvia Graham drew a long breath. “I’m all right now,” she pronounced. “There’s nothing left, I suppose, but to leave this house. And to thank you. How am I ever to thank you?” She lifted her eyes to his.
“Never mind the thanks,” said Average Jones unevenly. “It was nothing.”