“Did you tell him?” Capes smiled faintly. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John. . . The man was dangerous. “You should probably wash all of that stuff off of yourself. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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