I have always smiled at those cases of spontaneous combustion which, like fusing the component parts of a seidlitz powder, unite two people in a bubbling and ephemeral ecstasy. But surely there is possible, with but a single meeting, an attraction so great, a community of mind and interest so strong, that between that first meeting and the next the bond may grow into something stronger. This is especially true, I fancy, of people with temperament, the modern substitute for imagination. It is a nice question whether lovers begin to love when they are together, or when they are apart.

Not that I followed any such line of reasoning at the time. I would not even admit my folly to myself. But during the restless hours of that first night after the accident, when my back ached with lying on it, and any other position was torture, I found my thoughts constantly going back to Alison West. I dropped into a doze, to dream of touching her fingers again to comfort her, and awoke to find I had patted a teaspoonful of medicine out of Mrs. Klopton's indignant hand. What was it McKnight had said about making an egregious ass of myself?

And that brought me back to Richey, and I fancy I groaned. There is no use expatiating on the friendship between two men who have gone together through college, have quarreled and made it up, fussed together over politics and debated creeds for years: men don't need to be told, and women can not understand. Nevertheless, I groaned. If it had been any one but Rich!

Some things were mine, however, and I would hold them: the halcyon breakfast, the queer hat, the pebble in her small shoe, the gold bag with the broken chain—the bag! Why, it was in my pocket at that moment.

I got up painfully and found my coat. Yes, there was the purse, bulging with an opulent suggestion of wealth inside. I went back to bed again, somewhat dizzy, between effort and the touch of the trinket, so lately hers. I held it up by its broken chain and gloated over it. By careful attention to orders, I ought to be out in a day or so. Then—I could return it to her. I really ought to do that: it was valuable, and I wouldn't care to trust it to the mail. I could run down to Richmond, and see her once—there was no disloyalty to Rich in that.

I had no intention of opening the little bag. I put it under my pillow—which was my reason for refusing to have the linen slips changed, to Mrs. Klopton's dismay. And sometimes during the morning, while I lay under a virgin field of white, ornamented with strange flowers, my cigarettes hidden beyond discovery, and Science and Health on a table by my elbow, as if by the merest accident, I slid my hand under my pillow and touched it reverently.

McKnight came in about eleven. I heard his car at the curb, followed almost immediately by his slam at the front door, and his usual clamor on the stairs. He had a bottle under his arm, rightly surmising that I had been forbidden stimulant, and a large box of cigarettes in his pocket, suspecting my deprivation.

“Well,” he said cheerfully. “How did you sleep after keeping me up half the night?”

I slid my hand around: the purse was well covered. “Have it now, or wait till I get the cork out?” he rattled on.

“I don't want anything,” I protested. “I wish you wouldn't be so darned cheerful, Richey.” He stopped whistling to stare at me.

“'I am saddest when I sing!'” he quoted unctuously. “It's pure reaction, Lollie. Yesterday the sky was low: I was digging for my best friend. To-day—he lies before me, his peevish self. Yesterday I thought the notes were burned: to-day—I look forward to a good cross-country chase, and with luck we will draw.” His voice changed suddenly. “Yesterday—she was in Seal Harbor. To-day—she is here.”

“Here in Washington?” I asked, as naturally as I could.

“Yes. Going to stay a week or two.”

“Will you stop that racket, Rich! It's the real thing this time, I suppose?”

he finished, twisting out the corkscrew. Then he came over and sat down on the bed.

“Well,” he said judicially, “since you drag it from me, I think perhaps it is. You—you're such a confirmed woman-hater that I hardly knew how you would take it.”

“Nothing of the sort,” I denied testily. “Because a man reaches the age of thirty without making maudlin love to every—”

“I've taken to long country rides,” he went on reflectively, without listening to me, “and yesterday I ran over a sheep; nearly went into the ditch. But there's a Providence that watches over fools and lovers, and just now I know darned well that I'm one, and I have a sneaking idea I'm both.”

“You are both,” I said with disgust. “If you can be rational for one moment, I wish you would tell me why that man Sullivan called me over the telephone yesterday morning.”

“Probably hadn't yet discovered the Bronson notes—providing you hold to your theory that the theft was incidental to the murder. May have wanted his own clothes again, or to thank you for yours. Search me: I can't think of anything else.” The doctor came in just then.

As I said before, I think a lot of my doctor—when I am ill. He is a young man, with an air of breezy self-confidence and good humor. He looked directly past the bottle, which is a very valuable accomplishment, and shook hands with McKnight until I could put the cigarettes under the bedclothes. He had interdicted tobacco. Then he sat down beside the bed and felt around the bandages with hands as gentle as a baby's.

“Pretty good shape,” he said. “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, occasionally,” I replied. “I would like to sit up, doctor.”

“Nonsense. Take a rest while you have an excuse for it. I wish to thunder I could stay in bed for a day or so. I was up all night.”

“Have a drink,” McKnight said, pushing over the bottle.

“Twins!” The doctor grinned.

“Have two drinks.”

But the medical man refused.

“I wouldn't even wear a champagne-colored necktie during business hours,” he explained. “By the way, I had another case from your accident, Mr. Blakeley, late yesterday afternoon. Under the tongue, please.” He stuck a thermometer in my mouth.

I had a sudden terrible vision of the amateur detective coming to light, note-book, cheerful impertinence and incriminating data. “A small man?” I demanded, “gray hair—”

“Keep your mouth closed,” the doctor said peremptorily. “No. A woman, with a fractured skull. Beautiful case. Van Kirk was up to his eyes and sent for me. Hemorrhage, right-sided paralysis, irregular pupils—all the trimmings. Worked for two hours.”

“Did she recover?” McKnight put in. He was examining the doctor with a new awe.

“She lifted her right arm before I left,” the doctor finished cheerily, “so the operation was a success, even if she should die.”

“Good Heavens,” McKnight broke in, “and I thought you were just an ordinary mortal, like the rest of us! Let me touch you for luck. Was she pretty?”

“Yes, and young. Had a wealth of bronze-colored hair. Upon my soul, I hated to cut it.”

McKnight and I exchanged glances.

“Do you know her name, doctor?” I asked.

“No. The nurses said her clothes came from a Pittsburg tailor.”

“She is not conscious, I suppose?”

“No; she may be, to-morrow—or in a week.”

He looked at the thermometer, murmured something about liquid diet, avoiding my eye—Mrs. Klopton was broiling a chop at the time—and took his departure, humming cheerfully as he went down-stairs. McKnight looked after him wistfully.

“Jove, I wish I had his constitution,” he exclaimed. “Neither nerves nor heart! What a chauffeur he would make!”

But I was serious.

“I have an idea,” I said grimly, “that this small matter of the murder is going to come up again, and that your uncle will be in the deuce of a fix if it does. If that woman is going to die, somebody ought to be around to take her deposition. She knows a lot, if she didn't do it herself. I wish you would go down to the telephone and get the hospital. Find out her name, and if she is conscious.”

McKnight went under protest. “I haven't much time,” he said, looking at his watch. “I'm to meet Mrs. West and Alison at one. I want you to know them, Lollie. You would like the mother.”

“Why not the daughter?” I inquired. I touched the little gold bag under the pillow.

“Well,” he said judicially, “you've always declared against the immaturity and romantic nonsense of very young women—”

“I never said anything of the sort,” I retorted furiously.

“'There is more satisfaction to be had out of a good saddle horse!'” he quoted me. “'More excitement out of a polo pony, and as for the eternal matrimonial chase, give me instead a good stubble, a fox, some decent hounds and a hunter, and I'll show you the real joys of the chase!'”

“For Heaven's sake, go down to the telephone, you make my head ache,” I said savagely.

I hardly know what prompted me to take out the gold purse and look at it. It was an imbecile thing to do—call it impulse, sentimentality, what you wish. I brought it out, one eye on the door, for Mrs. Klopton has a ready eye and a noiseless shoe. But the house was quiet. Down-stairs McKnight was flirting with the telephone central and there was an odor of boneset tea in the air. I think Mrs. Klopton was fascinated out of her theories by the “boneset” in connection with the fractured arm.

Anyhow, I held up the bag and looked at it. It must have been unfastened, for the next instant there was an avalanche on the snowfield of the counterpane—some money, a wisp of a handkerchief, a tiny booklet with thin leaves, covered with a powdery substance—and a necklace. I drew myself up slowly and stared at the necklace.

It was one of the semi-barbaric affairs that women are wearing now, a heavy pendant of gold chains and carved cameos, swung from a thin neck chain of the same metal. The necklace was broken: in three places the links were pulled apart and the cameos swung loose and partly detached. But it was the supporting chain that held my eye and fascinated with its sinister suggestion. Three inches of it had been snapped off, and as well as I knew anything on earth, I knew that the bit of chain that the amateur detective had found, blood-stain and all, belonged just there.

And there was no one I could talk to about it, no one to tell me how hideously absurd it was, no one to give me a slap and tell me there are tons of fine gold chains made every year, or to point out the long arm of coincidence!

With my one useful hand I fumbled the things back into the bag and thrust it deep out of sight among the pillows. Then I lay back in a cold perspiration. What connection had Alison West with this crime? Why had she stared so at the gun-metal cigarette case that morning on the train? What had alarmed her so at the farm-house? What had she taken back to the gate? Why did she wish she had not escaped from the wreck? And last, in Heaven's name, how did a part of her necklace become torn off and covered with blood?

Down-stairs McKnight was still at the telephone, and amusing himself with Mrs. Klopton in the interval of waiting.

“Why did he come home in a gray suit, when he went away in a blue?” he repeated. “Well, wrecks are queer things, Mrs. Klopton. The suit may have turned gray with fright. Or perhaps wrecks do as queer stunts as lightning. Friend of mine once was struck by lightning; he and the caddy had taken refuge under a tree. After the flash, when they recovered consciousness, there was my friend in the caddy's clothes, and the caddy in his. And as my friend was a large man and the caddy a very small boy—”

McKnight's story was interrupted by the indignant slam of the dining-room door. He was obliged to wait some time, and even his eternal cheerfulness was ebbing when he finally got the hospital.

“Is Doctor Van Kirk there?” he asked. “Not there? Well, can you tell me how the patient is whom Doctor Williams, from Washington, operated on last night? Well, I'm glad of that. Is she conscious? Do you happen to know her name? Yes, I'll hold the line.” There was a long pause, then McKnight's voice:

“Hello—yes. Thank you very much. Good-by.”

He came up-stairs, two steps at a time.

“Look here,” he said, bursting into the room, “there may be something in your theory, after all. The woman's name—it may be a coincidence, but it's curious—her name is Sullivan.”

“What did I tell you?” I said, sitting up suddenly in bed. “She's probably a sister of that scoundrel in lower seven, and she was afraid of what he might do.”

“Well, I'll go there some day soon. She's not conscious yet. In the meantime, the only thing I can do is to keep an eye, through a detective, on the people who try to approach Bronson. We'll have the case continued, anyhow, in the hope that the stolen notes will sooner or later turn up.”

“Confound this arm,” I said, paying for my energy with some excruciating throbs. “There's so much to be looked after, and here I am, bandaged, splinted, and generally useless. It's a beastly shame.”

“Don't forget that I am here,” said McKnight pompously. “And another thing, when you feel this way just remember there are two less desirable places where you might be. One is jail, and the other is—” He strummed on an imaginary harp, with devotional eyes.

But McKnight's light-heartedness jarred on me that morning. I lay and frowned under my helplessness. When by chance I touched the little gold bag, it seemed to scorch my fingers. Richey, finding me unresponsive, left to keep his luncheon engagement with Alison West. As he clattered down the stairs, I turned my back to the morning sunshine and abandoned myself to misery. By what strain on her frayed nerves was Alison West keeping up, I wondered? Under the circumstances, would I dare to return the bag? Knowing that I had it, would she hate me for my knowledge? Or had I exaggerated the importance of the necklace, and in that case had she forgotten me already?

But McKnight had not gone, after all. I heard him coming back, his voice preceding him, and I groaned with irritation.

“Wake up!” he called. “Somebody's sent you a lot of flowers. Please hold the box, Mrs. Klopton; I'm going out to be run down by an automobile.”

I roused to feeble interest. My brother's wife is punctilious about such things; all the new babies in the family have silver rattles, and all the sick people flowers.

McKnight pulled up an armful of roses, and held them out to me.

“Wonder who they're from?” he said, fumbling in the box for a card. “There's no name—yes, here's one.”

He held it up and read it with exasperating slowness.

“Well, what do you know about that!” he exclaimed. “That's something you didn't tell me, Lollie.”

“It was hardly worth mentioning,” I said mendaciously, with my heart beating until I could hear it. She had not forgotten, after all.

McKnight took a bud and fastened it in his button-hole. I'm afraid I was not especially pleasant about it. They were her roses, and anyhow, they were meant for me. Richey left very soon, with an irritating final grin at the box.

“Good-by, sir woman-hater,” he jeered at me from the door.

So he wore one of the roses she had sent me, to luncheon with her, and I lay back among my pillows and tried to remember that it was his game, anyhow, and that I wasn't even drawing cards. To remember that, and to forget the broken necklace under my head!