She gave it up and went back to her work, but the face of Charles was behind her, looking over her shoulder. Her fingers began to hurt her. She put the accounts away and made a tour through the house. It was a slow, listless night—a Tuesday night. There weren’t even enough customers to put on the circus.

Kate knew how the girls felt about her. They were desperately afraid of her. She kept them that way. It was probable that they hated her, and that didn’t matter either. But they trusted her, and that did matter. If they followed the rules she laid down, followed them exactly, Kate would take care of them and protect them. There was no love involved and no respect. She never rewarded them and she punished an offender only twice before she removed her. The girls did have the security of knowing that they would not be punished without cause.

As Kate walked about, the girls became elaborately casual. Kate knew about that too and expected it. But on this night she felt that she was not alone. Charles seemed to walk to the side and behind her.

She went through the dining room and into the kitchen, opened the icebox and looked in. She lifted the cover of the garbage can and inspected it for waste. She did this every night, but this night she carried some extra charge.

When she had left the parlor the girls looked at each other and raised their shoulders in bewilderment. Eloise, who was talking to the dark-haired Joe, said, “Anything the matter?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I don’t know. She seems nervous.”

“Well, there was some kind of rat race.”

“What was it?”

“Wait a minute!” said Joe. “I don’t know and you don’t know.”

“I get it. Mind my own business.”

“You’re goddam right,” said Joe. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

“I don’t want to know,” said Eloise.

“Now you’re talking,” Joe said.

Kate ranged back from her tour. “I’m going to bed,” she said to Joe. “Don’t call me unless you have to.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Yes, make me a pot of tea. Did you press that dress, Eloise?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You didn’t do it very well.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kate was restless. She put all of her papers neatly in the pigeonholes of her desk, and when Joe brought the tea tray she had him put it beside her bed.

Lying back among her pillows and sipping the tea, she probed for her thought. What about Charles? And then it came to her.

Charles was clever. In his crazy way Sam Hamilton was clever. That was the fear-driven thought—there were clever people. Both Sam and Charles were dead, but maybe there were others. She worked it out very slowly.

Suppose I had been the one to dig up the bottles? What would I think and what would I do? A rim of panic rose in her breast. Why were the bottles broken and buried? So it wasn’t a poison! Then why bury them? What had made her do that? She should have dropped them in the gutter on Main Street or tossed them in the garbage can. Dr. Wilde was dead. But what kind of records did he keep? She didn’t know. Suppose she had found the glass and learned what had been in them. Wouldn’t she have asked someone who knew—“Suppose you gave croton oil to a person. What would happen?”