"Y-yes."
The girl turned triumphantly to her father. "He saw the gun and he heard shots. That proves self-defense at the worst. They were shooting at Clay when he struck with the chair—if he did. Clarendon's testimony will show that."
"My testimony!" screamed Bromfield. "My God, do you think I'm going to—to—go into court? They would claim I—I was—"
She waited, but he did not finish. "Clay's life may depend upon it, and of course you'll tell the truth," she said quietly.
"Maybe I didn't hear shots," he hedged. "Maybe it was furniture falling. There was a lot of noise of people stamping and fighting."
"You—heard—shots."
The eyes of the girl were deadly weapons. They glittered like unscabbarded steel. In them was a contained fire that awed him.
He threw out his hand in a weak, impotent gesture of despair. "My God, how did I ever come to get into such a mix-up? It will ruin me."
"How did you come to go?" she asked.
"He wanted to see New York. I suppose I had some notion of taking him slumming."