CHAPTER 14


The talk was fitful in the living room. Elizabeth Cornish did her best to
revive the happiness of her guests, but she herself was a prey to the
same subdued excitement which showed in the faces of the others. A
restraint had been taken away by the disappearance of both the storm
centers of the dinner--the sheriff and Terry. Therefore it was possible
to talk freely. And people talked. But not loudly. They were prone to
gather in little familiar groups and discuss in a whisper how Terry had
risen and spoken before them. Now and then someone, for the sake of
politeness, strove to open a general theme of conversation, but it died
away like a ripple on a placid pond.

"But what I can't understand," said Elizabeth to Vance when she was able
to maneuver him to her side later on, "is why they seem to expect
something more."

Vance was very grave and looked tired. The realization that all his
cunning, all his work, had been for nothing, tormented him. He had set
his trap and baited it, and it had worked perfectly--save that the teeth
of the trap had closed over thin air. At the denouement of the sheriff's
story there should have been the barking of two guns and a film of
gunpowder smoke should have gone tangling to the ceiling. Instead there
had been the formal little speech from Terry--and then quiet. Yet he had
to mask and control his bitterness; he had to watch his tongue in talking
with his sister.