"My testimony!" screamed Bromfield. "My God, do you think I'm going
to--to--go into court? They would claim I--I was--"

She waited, but he did not finish. "Clay's life may depend upon it,
and of course you'll tell the truth," she said quietly.

"Maybe I didn't hear shots," he hedged. "Maybe it was furniture
falling. There was a lot of noise of people stamping and fighting."

"You--heard--shots."

The eyes of the girl were deadly weapons. They glittered like
unscabbarded steel. In them was a contained fire that awed him.

He threw out his hand in a weak, impotent gesture of despair. "My God,
how did I ever come to get into such a mix-up? It will ruin me."

"How did you come to go?" she asked.

"He wanted to see New York. I suppose I had some notion of taking him
slumming."

Beatrice went up to him and looked straight into his eyes. "Then
testify to that in court. It won't hurt you any. Go down to the
police and say you have read in the paper that they want you. Tell the
whole truth. And Clary--don't weaken. Stick to your story about the
shots." Her voice shook a little. "Clay's life is at stake. Remember
that."

"Do you think it would be safe to go to the police?" he asked