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There was a moderate excitement. The visitors at Schwitter's were too much

engrossed with themselves to be much interested. She opened her eyes almost

as soon as she fell--to forestall any tests; she was shrewd enough to know

that Wilson would detect her malingering very quickly--and begged to be

taken into the house. "I feel very ill," she said, and her white face bore

her out.

Schwitter and Bill carried her in and up the stairs to one of the newly

furnished rooms. The little man was twittering with anxiety. He had a

horror of knockout drops and the police. They laid her on the bed, her hat

beside her; and Wilson, stripping down the long sleeve of her glove, felt

her pulse.

"There's a doctor in the next town," said Schwitter. "I was going to send

for him, anyhow--my wife's not very well."

"I'm a doctor."

"Is it anything serious?"

"Nothing serious."

He closed the door behind the relieved figure of the landlord, and, going

back to Carlotta, stood looking down at her.

"What did you mean by doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"You were no more faint than I am."

She closed her eyes.

"I don't remember. Everything went black. The lanterns--"

He crossed the room deliberately and went out, closing the door behind him.

He saw at once where he stood--in what danger. If she insisted that she

was ill and unable to go back, there would be a fuss. The story would come

out. Everything would be gone. Schwitter's, of all places!

At the foot of the stairs, Schwitter pulled himself together. After all,

the girl was only ill. There was nothing for the police. He looked at his

watch. The doctor ought to be here by this time. It was sooner than they

had expected. Even the nurse had not come. Tillie was alone, out in the

harness-room. He looked through the crowded rooms, at the overflowing

porch with its travesty of pleasure, and he hated the whole thing with a

desperate hatred.

Another car. Would they never stop coming! But perhaps it was the doctor.

A young man edged his way into the hall and confronted him.

"Two people just arrived here. A man and a woman--in white. Where are

they?"

It was trouble then, after all!

"Upstairs--first bedroom to the right." His teeth chattered. Surely, as a

man sowed he reaped.

Joe went up the staircase. At the top, on the landing, he confronted

Wilson. He fired at him without a word--saw him fling up his arms and fall

back, striking first the wall, then the floor.