“Is it true?” Shayne threw the question at her before she had time to catch her breath.

She raised her opaque eyes to his and cried out a vehement, “No!” then dropped them and added as if the words might strangle her, “I don’t know.”

Shayne said dryly, “You’d better make up your mind, if she’s due this afternoon.”

“It’s too horrible to be true. It isn’t. It can’t be. But I-everything’s mixed up. I can’t think any more. I’m afraid to let myself think. There’s something horrible inside of me. I can feel it growing. I can’t escape it. They say I can’t.”

“Isn’t that something you’d better decide for yourself rather than let them decide for you?”

“But I-can’t think straight any more. It’s all like a nightmare and I have-spells.”

She was so damned young. Michael Shayne studied her morosely from across the room. Too young to be having spells and to have lost her ability to think straight. Still, he wasn’t a nursemaid. He shook his head irritably, went to a wall liquor cabinet and took down a bottle of cognac. Facing her, he held it up and raised bushy red eyebrows.

“Have a drink?”

“No.” She was looking down at the carpet. While he poured himself one she began talking with dreary hopelessness.

“I suppose it was silly of me to come to you. No one can help me. I’m in a lonely place, Mr. Shayne. And I can’t face it alone any more. Perhaps they’re right.” Her voice sank to an awed whisper. “I do hate him. I can’t help it. I don’t see how Mother could have done it. We were so happy together. Now, it’s spoiled. What’s the use of-going on?” Her lips scarcely moved.