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It fitted in with "I’ve influenced Stella in everything. Especially I’ve influenced her so that she likes all the men I like. " A woman would do a thing like that because she felt sympathetic–only a man would do it because he felt responsible.

When Stella came back into the room he took both her hands.

"I have a strange feeling that I’m a sort of pawn in a spite game you’re playing against Miles," he said.

"Help yourself to a drink. "

"And the odd thing is that I’m in love with you anyhow. "

The telephone rang and she freed herself to answer it.

"Another wire from Miles," she announced. "He dropped it, or it says he dropped it, from the airplane at Kansas City. "

"I suppose he asked to be remembered to me. "

"No, he just said he loved me. I believe he does. He’s so very weak. "

"Come sit beside me," Joel urged her.

It was early. And it was still a few minutes short of midnight a half-hour later, when Joel walked to the cold hearth, and said tersely:

"Meaning that you haven’t any curiosity about me?"

"Not at all. You attract me a lot and you know it. The point is that I suppose I really do love Miles. "

"Obviously. "

"And tonight I feel uneasy about everything. "

He wasn’t angry–he was even faintly relieved that a possible entanglement was avoided. Still as he looked at her, the warmth and softness of her body thawing her cold blue costume, he knew she was one of the things he would always regret.

"I’ve got to go," he said. "I’ll phone a taxi. "

"Nonsense–there’s a chauffeur on duty. "

He winced at her readiness to have him go, and seeing this she kissed him lightly and said, "You’re sweet, Joel. " Then suddenly three things happened
: he took down his drink at a gulp, the phone rang loud through the house and a clock in the hall struck in trumpet notes.

Nine–ten–eleven–twelve–

It was Sunday again. Joel realized that he had come to the theater this evening with the work of the week still hanging about him like cerements. He had made love to Stella as he might attack some matter to be cleaned up hurriedly before the day’s end. But this was Sunday–the lovely, lazy perspective of the next twenty-four hours unrolled before him–every minute was something to be approached with lulling indirection, every moment held the germ of innumerable possibilities. Nothing was impossible–everything was just beginning. He poured himself another drink.

With a sharp moan, Stella slipped forward inertly by the telephone. Joel picked her up and laid her on the sofa. He squirted soda-water on a handkerchief and slapped it over her face. The telephone mouthpiece was still grinding and he put it to his ear.

"–the plane fell just this side of Kansas City. The body of Miles Calman has been identified and–"

He hung up the receiver.

"Lie still," he said, stalling, as Stella opened her eyes.

"Oh, what’s happened?" she whispered. "Call them back. Oh, what’s happened?"

"I’ll call them right away. What’s your doctor’s name?"

"Did they say Miles was dead?"

"Lie quiet–is there a servant still up?"

"Hold me–I’m frightened. "

He put his arm around her.

"I want the name of your doctor," he said sternly. "It may be a mistake but I want someone here. "

"It’s Doctor–Oh, God, is Miles dead?"

Joel ran upstairs and searched through strange medicine cabinets for spirits of ammonia. When he came down Stella cried:

"He isn’t dead–I know he isn’t. This is part of his scheme. He’s torturing me. I know he’s alive. I can feel he’s alive. "

"I want to get hold of some close friend of yours, Stella. You can’t stay here alone tonight. "