Toward morning he wakened from a light sleep. The door into Lucy's room

was open and a dim light was burning beyond it. David called her, and by

her immediate response he knew she had not been sleeping.

"Yes, David," she said, and came padding in in her bedroom slippers

and wadded dressing-gown, a tragic figure of apprehension, determinedly

smiling. "What do you want?"

"Sit down, Lucy."

When she had done so he put out his hand, fumbling for hers. She was

touched and alarmed, for it was a long while since there had been any

open demonstration of affection between them. David was silent for a

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time, absorbed in thought. Then: "I'm not in very good shape, Lucy. I suppose you know that. This old

pump of mine has sprung a leak or something. I don't want you to worry

if anything happens. I've come to the time when I've got a good many

over there, and it will be like going home."

Lucy nodded. Her chin quivered. She smoothed his hand, with its high

twisted veins.

"I know, David," she said. "Mother and father, and Henry, and a good

many friends. But I need you, too. You're all I have, now that Dick--"

"That's why I called you. If I can get out there, I'll go. And I'll put

up a fight that will make them wish they'd never started anything. But

if I can't, if I--" She felt his fingers tighten on her hand. "If Hattie

Thorwald is still living, we'll put her on the stand. If I can't go,

for any reason, I want you to see that she is called. And you know where

Henry's statement is?"

"In your box, isn't it?"

"Yes. Have the statement read first, and then have her called to

corroborate it. Tell the story I have told you--or no, I'll dictate it

to you in the morning, and sign it before witnesses. Jake and Bill will

testify too."

He felt easier in his mind after that. He had marshalled his forces and

begun his preparations for battle. He felt less apprehension now in case

he fell asleep, to waken among those he had loved long since and lost

awhile. After a few moments his eyes closed, and Lucy went back to her

bed and crawled into it.

It was, however, Harrison Miller who took the statement that morning.

Lucy's cramped old hand wrote too slowly for David's impatience.

Harrison Miller took it, on hotel stationery, covering the carefully

numbered pages with his neat, copper-plate writing. He wrote with an

impassive face, but with intense interest, for by that time he knew

Dick's story.




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