It had come. It WAS a frame-up. There
would be a scandal. And to save himself from it they would force him to
"hush up" this other one. But, as to the outcome, in no way was he
concerned. Through the window, standing directly below it, he had seen
Nolan. In the sunlit yard the chauffeur, his cap on the back of his
head, his cigarette drooping from his lips, was tossing the remnants of
a sandwich to a circle of excited hens. He presented a picture of bored
indolence, of innocent preoccupation. It was almost _too_ well done.
Assured of a witness for the defense, he greeted the woman with a smile.
"Why can't I do it?" he taunted.
She ran close to him and laid her hands on his arm. Her eyes were fixed
steadily on his. "Because," she whispered, "the man who shot that
girl--is your brother-in-law, Ham Cutler!"
For what seemed a long time Wharton stood looking down into the eyes of
the woman, and the eyes never faltered. Later he recalled that in the
sudden silence many noises disturbed the lazy hush of the Indian-summer
afternoon: the rush of a motor-car on the Boston Road, the tinkle of
the piano and the voice of the youth with the drugged eyes singing, "And
you'll wear a simple gingham gown," from the yard below the cluck-cluck
of the chickens and the cooing of pigeons.
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