at Cragero's had occurred so late at night that they had been obliged to publish the few, evident facts without investigating what lay behind them; but to-day gave time for that. Kemphill, James, Jones and Stern; from the cards in Billy's pockets they had learned his business association; by this time the reporters would be interviewing the members of the firm who would be sure to mention Billy's personal friends. Yes; for a while, until Hale could put his thoughts in shape, the west side parks would prove useful this morning.
In room number twelve at Jen Cordeen's, Marjorie sat on her bed with the newspaper before her; but she no longer read it. Sometimes she stared at the headlines and at Billy's name printed below—William Whittaker—followed by those words which said that he was dead; sometimes she stared at Clara, who was dressing now and saying nothing to her.
So she had killed Billy; she had killed Billy. It ran a sort of dull, undownable refrain through her thoughts; she had killed Billy. Of course not meaning to, never dreaming that, as a result of anything she chose or did, Billy must die. But there he was out in the country somewhere in strangers' hands, dead by violence as a direct result of a course of conduct which she had chosen and which he had opposed from the first and with all his soul; and, if she had to account to no one else, she had to account to Billy for that. Mentally, she could believe that Billy was dead but she could not yet feel that fact; so here she was, considering his death while she still held the sensation that, for all she had done, she must yet complete a physical accounting with Billy and, to that accounting, was now added her responsibility in his own death.
For she was certain that he must be holding her re-
