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didn't matter, she deserved it anyway; but because he felt that in some occult way he was even now hurting Brad unbearably.

He had an uncanny impression, when he went to stand before Eunice, that the Eyes in the polychrome frame moved as he moved and stopped when he stopped—vigilant. He seemed to feel them boring into his back. "Eunice," he said with a gentleness that was for their benefit, "Eunice, look up here. Please forget what I said, will you? Can you? Please."

It was a relief to hear her say that she would. She said other things too, unconsciously remedying the deficiencies in his plea for pardon. "You didn't mean it, of cohse. You were just beside yoahself on account of the othah. I know. Don't think any moah about it, Jock." The grace and promptness with which she forgave him disquieted him. That wasn't like Eunice. It was more like Brad. It was more like Brad! Did she also, then, talk at the dictation of those dead and sightless, yet somehow seeing, living, penetrating Eyes?

He thought she did. Grotesquely he thought of a Punch-and-Judy show . . . Eunice and he, puppets, motivated and controlled by a hidden presence who spoke aloud now through their mouths.

He sat down again beside her. 'Now!' he said, making a determined attempt to throw himself beyond the shadow of this awe. "That's all over. Go on with what you were saying, Eunice. About the rotten gossip—I'm sorry it worries you so."

"It neahly kills me!"

"I know. It's a crime."

"If Brad knew," Eunice went on, slowly and stumblingly, "I—I don't know what he'd do. He wouldn't