“Take this,” she said softly, “for your Irene. May you be very, very happy together!”
For the space of five seconds Preston Jax’s chin was motionless. Then a minor cataclysm convulsed it. Speech emerged from that facial quake, in a half-stutter, half-blubber, wholly absurd and laughter-provoking and heart-moving.
“Wh-wh-whut’ll I say? Whut’ll I do, to thank you, ma’am? I—I—I’ll just tell you this. It’s me for the straight-and-narrow from now on. And if ever you or Professor Kent or any of you want an A-1, special charted, extra-celestial star-reading for self or friends, you—you—you c-c-c-come—” He made a rush for the hallway, and the door banged a period to his emotion.
“I think,” said Chester Kent gravely, “that lesson will last.”
As Marjorie Blair stood smiling, soft-eyed, at the door whence the overcome Star-master had disappeared, Sedgwick started to pass. With quick and unexpected tact, Alexander Blair drew the sheriff and the lawyer aside, giving to the young people their moment. She looked up at Sedgwick with lifted eyebrows.
“Are you not going to speak to me?” she said sorrowfully.
“What is there to say, except one thing—and that I may not say now.”
“No, no!” she whispered, in affright. “But say you forgive me.”
“You! For what?”
“For having believed, even for an instant, what Father Blair said, that you were the murderer.”