did not like the idea. A will was a serious matter, especially with so much at stake. It would go to probate. Judges would examine it, in case of a contest. The fact that she was badly shocked, too, might operate against it. But he felt helpless against the pleading in her face. Finally, at the desk in the living room, he made a rough draft and was carrying it in to read to her when the hall door opened. It was Collier, astonished first, and then ugly and menacing.
"Well, for God's sake!" he said thickly. "If it ain't Forsythe! What do you think you're doing here?"
"If you want the exact facts," Forsythe said, "I'm doing some legal work for your wife. After tonight I think she needs it."
"If you're talking about a divorce, she's not getting one."
"That's hardly up to you, is it?"
"Why, you young bastard, I'll knock the hell out of you."
In the next room Anne was sitting up in bed.
"Stop it, Fred," she called sharply. "I sent for him. Don't be a fool. You're only making trouble for yourself."
Fred, however, only grinned.
"Always hated your guts," he said, "didn't I, Forsythe? Almost got me court-martialed, didn't you? Why, you— I'll smash that good-looking face of yours to hell and gone!"
He made a sudden lunge, but Forsythe countered quickly. He had a certain advantage. Collier had not only had a few drinks. He was also softer than in the war years. But he was still a big man, with long arms, and his first blow landed on Forsythe's jaw and almost knocked him off his feet. It did throw him over the sharp edge of a table, which knocked the breath out of him. But his training in the Marines came to his aid. He recovered in time, and the fight was almost a draw, with chairs and a small table overturned, when at last Forsythe got in a hard blow to Collier's chin and he was out like a light.
Only then did he realize there was an audience. Hellinger, the superintendent, and an elderly man carrying a bag were in the doorway, and both of them were looking gratified.
Forsythe was panting, but he turned and called to Anne in the next room.
"Don't worry. He'll be all right. Just knocked out."
The doctor had put down his bag and was stooping over Collier.
"Nice work," he told Forsythe. "Drunk, I suppose? He'll give you no trouble for a while."
He went in and spoke to Anne.
"You've had quite a jolt," he said, "but you're lucky. No bones broken."
"What about Mr. Jamison?" she asked.
"Making the devil of a fuss. Says he's sprained his leg. Maybe he did. Claims he always said the stairs weren't safe."
When he came back the three men picked up the still unconscious Collier and dumped him on the bed. Then Hellinger took the doorkey and locked him in.
"That'll hold the murdering devil," he said with a grin. "Want me to call the cops, mister?"
Forsythe shook his head, which was unfortunate as he had suffered some certain damages himself. He felt dizzy and sat down, with a vision of Miss Potter at the office reading her morning paper and coming across his name as having been involved in a brawl. As well as his hostess of that evening, and the thousand and one people an eligible single man in New York always knew.
"No police, thanks," he said. "But I'm staying. I knew the fellow in the war. Even jails don't hold him when he wants to get out."
Anne, however, was insistent.
"He'll be quiet now," she said. "He won't remember much in the morning, and I don't need a nurse. I'll be all right, really."
Forsythe was reluctant to leave her, but Hellinger offered to keep an eye on the place, so he finally agreed. In the hall, however, he asked for the piece of wire and was given it rather grudgingly.
"If that fellow upstairs makes trouble, I'll need it," Hellinger protested.
"You'll get it back," Forsythe promised. "I only want it for a few hours."
He wasn't quite sure himself why he had asked for it except that it had been intended to kill Anne. Nevertheless, he rolled it up and put it in his trousers pocket.
On his way out he found the Kerrs waiting in the hall. Both of them were in dressing gowns over nightclothes, and both stared at him unbelievingly.
"Oh, brother!" the man breathed. "That must have been something!"
For the first time Forsythe stopped to take inventory of his condition. His black dress tie was missing entirely, and one sleeve of his jacket was hanging loose from the shoulder. What with one eye swelling rapidly and a split lip which had bled down his shirt front he realized he cut a rather sorry figure. Also that Mrs. Kerr was trying hard not to laugh.
"I—I'm sorry," she gasped. "Can I—can I pin up your sleeve?"
"Thanks," he said politely but with care, because of the lip. "I have my overcoat. Anything you know about tonight?"
Kerr was a tall thin boyish-looking individual, probably in his mid-thirties, with a pencil mustache and a conspicuous Adam's apple which moved up and down as he spoke. His wife, however, was attractive, in spite of the cold cream on her face. It was Kerr who answered.
"Only that Collier came home and raised hell, according to Mike Hellinger," he said.
"Was either of you at home when his wife fell down the stairs? She had rather a nasty fall."
He suspected Hellinger had told them about the wire, for he was aware of a quick glance between them.
"Went to the movies," Kerr said. "Only been home an hour or so. Those stairs are bad, mister. That's why we live down here."
Forsythe said good night and took a taxi home. In the cab he tried to rationalize the situation. Men did not usually murder their wives to prevent their getting a divorce. If Collier had actually placed the wire on the stairs, it looked as though he knew about Anne's money. It was possible, of course, remembering what Martha Simmons had said about Central Park.
If he had followed Anne there and seen her meet the Simmons woman, what was easier than to trace the agent to her office? And Martha Simmons had been scared that day when he visited her. Why? Suppose she had told Collier the facts, and was now afraid for Anne as well as her program? She had been badly frightened when he talked to her. He realized that now.
Margery, of course, was waiting for him when he got home. All he wanted was a hot shower for his aching muscles and to get to bed, but she took one look at him, opened her mouth to yelp, thought better of it, and dashed to her bathroom. When—a half hour later and he was smelling strongly of iodine and witch hazel—she stood beside his bed and waited, he abandoned the idea of a taxi accident.
"All right," he said. "I guess you're entitled to it. I had quite a scrap with Collier."
"So I suppose. I hope you killed him."
"I did my feeble best. He'll wake up sooner or later, and he won't feel too good."
He
