The counterpane on Dorothy's bed was all white and blue, and quilted
in a curious fashion, and her pillows were edged with lace. In the
midst of this white-and-blue nest, her slender little body half
buried in her great feather-bed, her lovely yellow locks spreading
over her pillow, lay Dorothy Fair when Madelon entered. She half
raised herself, and stared at her with blue, dilated eyes, and shrank
back with a little whimper of terror when she came impetuously to her
bedside.

"You don't believe it," Madelon said, with no preface.

Dorothy stared at her, trembling. "You mean--"

"I mean you don't believe he killed him! You don't believe Burr
Gordon killed his cousin Lot!"

Dorothy sank weakly back on her pillows. Great tears welled up in her
blue eyes and rolled down her soft cheeks. "They _saw_ him there,"
she sobbed out, "and they found his knife. Oh, I didn't think he was
so wicked!"

Madelon caught her by one slender arm hard, as if she would have
shaken her. "_You_ believe it!" she cried out. "You believe that Burr
did it--_you!_"

"They--saw--him--there," moaned Dorothy, with a terrified roll of her
tearful eyes at Madelon's face.

"_Saw him there!_ What if they did see him there? What if the whole