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I'm sure it wasn't on any of the newscasts." "Of course, it wasn't. The police didn't even question me. I called the police and they came two prowl-car men. Then they told Les and me to wait. We waited, and after a while this Brent Taber came in. He told us to go home and keep our mouths shut. Later, we were called downtown and Taber talked to us."
Eventually Taber came to England and acted with Henry Irving in "Peter the Great" and other plays. Like his friend Joe, he too was heroic. His health was bad and his life none too happy but he struggled on. His career was cut short by consumption and he died in the Adirondacks in 1904. I cannot speak of all my friends in America, or anywhere, for the matter of that, individually.
Afraid to spit if some Washington bureaucrat wagged a finger. Well, the hell with Corson. The hell with Taber. The hell with all of them. If Les King stood to make an honest buck, he was going to do his damnedest until somebody passed a law making it illegal. Brent Taber was drawn to Doctor Entman. He found, in the ugly little scientist, a rapport that seemed to exist nowhere else.
Fires had to be kindled to warm the damp, dreary rooms, and Ann Walden, crouching by the blaze, looked gratefully up into Cynthia's face and laughed that vacant, childish laugh that aroused in the girl the fear that youth knows, and the pity that woman learns. And late that afternoon the little doctor, astride her rugged horse, rode up to the cabin of Sally Taber, and made a business proposition.
The higher you went in these top-secret projects, the more silence and stubbornness you found. The men up above, it seemed, were never as open to discussion as were the lower-echelon eager beavers. They indulged in horse-trading and played politics to a certain extent, but the lines of demarcation were sharper. That was why he could get Taber discredited, even crippled.
I had not money enough to pay our fare, and stood hesitating what to do. Fortunately for us, there were two Quaker gentlemen who were about to take passage on the stage, Friends William C. Taber and Joseph Ricketson, who at once discerned our true situation, and, in a peculiarly quiet way, addressing me, Mr. Taber said: "Thee get in."
He looked at the man in the blue suit and said, "You've been lucky. They're after you." "Who is they?" "Taber. The government crowd. The police, too, maybe. You killed that guy in the Village, didn't you?" Les King had decided a bold approach was the best way. But he was no fool. He kept his hand on the doorknob and watched the man carefully. "By the way, you haven't told me your name."
He's a master hypnotist. You're all right. We won't say a word about what happened in here. And you'll have no trouble in the future." The patrolman shook his head. "Still, I gotta do something about it." "Talk to your psychiatrist," Taber said. "In the meantime, keep that crowd out there from spilling in here."
Don't you suppose this Brent Taber will toss that murder right back into your lap if it suits his purpose? The body was in your room. You're probably the chief suspect. So you sit back and let Brent Taber play whatever game he's got in mind. And if it goes wrong, Frank Corson gets picked up for murder." "It can't possibly happen that way." "Why not? Who is Brent Taber, really?"
Teale had escaped and the Morleys had accompanied him. "Well!" said Sally Taber to Cynthia; "I 'spect Mart Morley had to get his livin' somehow. The yaller streak's got the best of him." Cynthia made no reply. Oddly enough in her fancy she was gazing upon the portrait of "The Biggest of Them All." Martin Morley slept, in the clean loft over Marcia Lowe's living-room.
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