you were exercising that privilege. Mrs. Cartwright, if you were not at this moment standing before this bar of justice, Cecil Kelsey would be here in your stead, in the shadow of this court, charged with your murder!"

He turned toward the bench, flushed and triumphant, eagerly searching for a sign of approbation from that direction, but His Honor was busily brushing some lint from his robe. And the little man turned back to Mrs. Cartwright.

"Other than self-defense, the State will be able to prove no motive for what it is pleased to call the crime you have committed and with which you are charged, Mrs. Cartwright."

"I was not considering motives at the time," Mrs. Cartwright said. Her voice was low and vibrant and he looked for several long moments at her rich, ripe lips and felt slightly sick to his stomach.

"Of course not," he murmured understandingly, after he had recovered himself. "But nevertheless, there was a motive present, Mrs. Cartwright. You shot and killed Cecil Kelsey when he attempted to assault you. It that not true, Mrs. Cartwright?"

Mrs. Cartwright breathed deeply. "Yes," she answered.

"In other words, the deceased tried to rape you. Is that not true. Mrs. Cartwright?"

Mrs. Cartwright lowered her head. "Yes," she said.

The day had been rainy and chilly and the red earth had fallen with a hollow sound into the newly dug grave. She stood beside Cecil and the rain hit her face with a refreshing iciness. She felt strange and oddly light-headed standing there at the graveside staring at the gray end of the coffin that still lay uncovered. Cecil seemed preoccupied and far-away and she was suddenly weary of trying to bridge the gap that had come between them. She looked at him from the corner of her eye: the thin, bird-like profile. the hat pulled far down over his forehead (that awful hat!), the spout of rainwater gushing from its brim, the hands savagely thrust into his raincoat's pockets-Cecil seemed almost a natural part of the scene, along with the rain, the graves, the sullen brooding day. It was the perfect setting for Cecil, she thought, and she moved closer to him as the raw opening in the earth was finally filled. It looked like a great, gaping wound. but when the elaborate funeral pieces had been placed upon the mound, she felt it didn't look half so bad. Poor Bill! She thought. Poor old Bill Cartwright! There was nothing much left, now, nothing, really, that she could recall, and she had a peculiar feeling of finality about the whole thing. Bill was gone. She scarcely remembered what he had looked like. My God! she thought, my own husband, and I can't remember what in hell he looked like!

The car was waiting for them.

"We might as well go," she said. "It's all over, Cecil."

"Monica," he said. "if you don't mind . . . I'd much rather stay here a bit and then go back alone."

"Of course I mind," she answered. "We'll have a good dinner and then we'll both feel ever so much better. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you've caught a chill. Your lips are almost as blue as your eyes, Cecil."

"Monica, dear," he said, "I couldn't possibly think of food at a time like this." "Do you mind, then, if I do your thinking for you, Cecil?" She had already taken his arm and was leading him from the grave to the car. "Perhaps you'd

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