Once her hands clenched. "Where is he now? Not—not here?"
"No," said Gregg.
She did not follow thought of Russell for more than that flash. Her hands relaxed; slowly she swung her back to Gregg and Billy and stared at the hallway down which was the room where her father lay. Once she shrank shorter in a spasm; her tension had broken at her knees; but she caught up and regained herself, and not even Billy this time tried to grasp her.
She made not a move, not a quiver, not a gasp for pity; but Gregg, watching her, was sorrier for her than he had ever been for any one in all his life; and prouder for her. He could not know then how he loved her; love—it was hardly a thing to think about then. But he seemed to feel something, fluid before, take form hard and unyielding with him; and he knew that he and his life were that girl's. Then he looked up and saw Bill; but Bill did not see him.
Marjorie was turning about to them.
"Billy," she said, and then she looked by him to Gregg and though she did not say his name, yet it was to him she spoke, "I don't know what's coming over me. I'm all right now. Don't either of you worry. You see, I don't feel at all; I don't feel anything at all. Why, a minute ago I thought the worst thing in the world would be that my father would die. And now, I can't care!"
Billy breathed out, then caught his breath with a sob.
"Marjorie!"
"Don't, Billy," she begged. "I want to think; I have to think! The police for one thing; I was wondering a minute ago when they would come; I was
