I reported all this, in brief outline, to Wolfe Tuesday evening. His comment was, “Then the death of this Judge Harrison, this man who in his conceit permitted himself the awful pretensions of a reader of chaos — whether designed by Providence or by Paul Chapin, his death was extempore. Let us forget it; it might clutter up our minds, but it cannot crowd oblivion. If Mr. Chapin had been content with that man’s death and had restrained his impulse to rodomontade, he might have considered himself safely avenged — in that instance. But his vanity undid him; he wrote that threat and sent it broadcast. That was dangerous.”
“How sure are you?”
“Sure—”
“That he sent the threat.”
“Did I not say he did?”
“Yeah. Excuse me for living.”
“I would not take that responsibility; I have all I can do to excuse myself.—But so much for Judge Harrison; whatever chaos he inhabits now, let us hope he contemplates it with a wiser modesty. I would tell you about Mr. Hibbard. That is, I would tell you nothing, for there is nothing to tell. His niece, Miss Evelyn Hibbard, called on me this morning.”
“Oh, she did. I thought she was coming Wednesday.”
“She anticipated it, having received a report of last evening’s gathering.”
“Did she spill anything new?”