Deadlier Than the Pen (14 page)

They needed to talk about Miss Jenny, among other things, but once again Diana bit back confrontational questions. The truce between them was fragile this morning. She felt as if she were treading on eggshells.
Ben escorted Diana through a door marked "Office" and into a simply furnished waiting room. It was empty when they arrived but did not remain so long. They hadn't even reached the adjoining surgery before a man rushed in carrying a young girl in his arms. The child was whimpering pitifully and the cause was obvious -- her left arm was swollen to twice its normal size.
"In here," Ben instructed, indicating the surgery.
Diana followed them. The girl was a toddler no more than two years old. Although Diana was sure her pain had not decreased, her cries grew weaker as her strength, perhaps even her will to live, was drained away by prolonged suffering.
Ben stripped off his coat and hat, tossing them into a corner as he bent to examine the arm. "An abscess. It will have to be lanced at once."
The child's father went white. Diana took his arm and steered him firmly back to the outer room. "Wait here," she ordered, and returned to the surgery, shedding her own outerwear as she went.
Ben was already administering anesthetic. Diana wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the pungent vapor.
"You'd better leave. There's worse to come."
Diana braced herself. As soon as the child was asleep, he made the first incision. When pus shot up in an arc, foul looking and noisome, Diana found a clean cloth and wiped up the mess, but she soon realized that it was the infected area that most needed attention. Ben had to stop after each discharge to clean the incision so that he could see what he was doing. Without a word, Diana took over that part of the job. Through seemingly endless repetitions of the task, she persevered, until at last the operation was over.
Ben regarded her with an unfathomable expression as he secured the bandages.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asked.
He cleared his throat and the warmth that came into his eyes made her knees weak. "No. Some professional nurses would have been too queasy to assist me in a case like this one. You did well."
"I'm only squeamish when it comes to reading horror stories," she quipped.
Ben's voice was gruff. "Go out and tell that father his little girl will recover. And since you're here, you may as well see what the next emergency is."

*Chapter Fifteen*
Ben had locked himself in his basement laboratory by the time Diana came down to breakfast on Saturday. He'd instructed the servants that he was not to be disturbed.
"He does this now and again." Maggie pursed her lips. "Gives me an idea. What if a mad scientist.... "Her voice trailed off and a moment later she departed for her inner sanctum.
Diana ate, then ventured outside. The dry, chilly air invigorated her. It was a perfect day to walk and her first stop was the carriage house.
"He's painting, mum," Joseph told her when she asked after Aaron. "He won't like it if he's disturbed."
"He's himself again, then?"
"Oh, yes, mum. Right as rain."
After a moment's consideration, Diana decided to walk into town. Grudgingly, Ernest relinquished a spare key to the gate, so she could let herself out and in again.
Her main purpose was to find out if Horatio Foxe had replied to her telegram, but she stopped first at the Bangor House for lunch. The place was crowded. As she waited to be seated, a handsome lithographic folder caught her eye, a _familiar_ flyer used for advertising purposes.
With a sense of inevitability, Diana took a closer look. She had not been mistaken. A portrait of Nathan Todd in his role in _The Duchess of Calabria_ graced the front. Inside were views of the principal scenes from the play. Todd's Touring Thespians were coming to Bangor.
Belatedly, Diana realized she'd known that. Jerusha had mentioned it on the train. With all that had happened after, it had completely slipped her mind. The company, she now saw, would give six performances at the Bangor Opera House, starting on Monday night. That meant they'd probably arrive sometime on Sunday -- tomorrow.
Her first instinct was to be pleased that she'd soon see old friends again. Her second thought was that explaining her presence would involve revealing the truth about Damon Bathory. Their timing could not have been worse. Maggie could not go to Boston to meet with her publisher until Monday. If the news leaked...
She'd have to avoid the actors, Diana decided. At least until after her story broke.
When she'd enjoyed a fine meal and done a bit of window shopping, Diana went at last to the Western Union office. The reply she'd expected had arrived, but Foxe's message stunned her. A third female reporter had been murdered in an alley, this time in Los Angeles. Another critic, like the first two, and like them she'd been killed on the same Saturday night Damon Bathory concluded his visit to her city.
Diana gave no credence to the idea that Ben had murdered any of those women, although it was obvious Foxe still thought so. However, the news did send her scurrying back to the Northcote mansion. Now that there were three cases, coincidence could no longer explain them away. It seemed likely that the killer was a member of some touring theatrical troupe or act, and that the same person might, after all, have been responsible for the attack on her in New York.
As she trudged up and down the hilly landscape of Bangor, her mind raced. Fragmented memories chased after her -- a sound behind her, a tug on the back of Ben's cloak, a blow to the head. If her fall from the train had been no accident, then it followed that the troupe in question was Toddy's. That meant someone she knew had killed those three reviewers and had tried, twice, to kill her.
She wanted Ben, wanted him to hold her close and tell her that it would all be all right, that he'd keep her safe. Ben, however, did not emerge from his lab for supper. Likewise, Maggie was too absorbed in her new project to stop and eat. Diana dined in solitary splendor and went to bed that night in a troubled frame of mind. First thing in the morning, she promised herself, she would insist on talking to Ben. If he put her off again, she'd do the sensible thing and take the first train back to New York.
* * * *
Diana awoke some time later to the groggy notion that Cedric the cat was perched on the end of her bed, his furry bulk pressing against her feet. Only gradually did she realize that the steady breathing was that of a much larger creature.
Still only half awake, she tried to convince herself that the distinctive odor tickling her nostrils was carbolic, the scent of the doctor, but it was not. The smell, unmistakably, was turpentine, the hallmark of the painter.
"I know you're awake," Aaron said. "You might as well talk to me."
"What do you want me to say?" She hugged the covers tightly to her chest as she sat up and reached for the oil lamp on the bedside table.
The first flicker of light, from the match she struck to ignite the wick, showed her that Aaron's face wore a broad, satisfied smile. In fact, he looked like a delighted little boy who'd just gotten away with something. Or a child who'd made a magnificent discovery all by himself. His words, even when spoken in a decidedly adult male voice, reinforced the juvenile image.
"I've had a marvelous idea." He slid up the bed until his hips were aligned with hers and they were sitting face to face. He seemed very large, very solid. If he chose to attack, she'd have little chance of warding him off.
"What idea?" In spite of her best effort, her voice shook a little. "What is it that couldn't wait until morning?"
Puzzlement flickered briefly across his features, as if he had not realized the time. He didn't seem to understand the implications of being in her bedroom, nor did he appear to be affected by glimpses of her in her nightdress.
"What idea?" Diana repeated.
The childlike delight returned as he seized both her hands. "I know what's been missing from my paintings. I understand at last. I must paint you."
"Aaron, we've discussed this before -- "
"No. You don't understand. From now on I must paint only one woman. Only you, Diana. You will be more than my model, you will be my inspiration."
His intensity rattled her. For a moment all she could think of was that Ben would be upset. "I won't take my clothes off for you," she blurted.
"No need. It is your face that haunts me. Imagination will provide the rest of the body. A mermaid's tail, and -- " He broke off at a faint noise just outside her door.
"Joseph is trying to sneak up on us." Aaron giggled, a high, outlandish sound Diana found disconcerting. Without another word he left the room. A moment later Diana heard two sets of footsteps moving away.
* * * *
"Good morning, my dear," Maggie greeted Diana at breakfast. From her cheery demeanor, the new story had progressed. "Ben was called out again last night, shortly after you retired, I believe. I expect he went straight to the office afterward. Sunday is a doctor's busiest day. Patients come into town for church and stop to have their minor ailments tended before they return home. Saves them an extra trip, you see."
All Diana saw was that, once again, she'd missed her chance to talk to Ben. He was busy, that was true, but he also seemed to go out of his way to avoid her. She buttered a roll and chewed thoughtfully. Should she board that train to New York?
"What church do you attend?" she asked her hostess.
"Witches," Maggie declared in lofty tones, "do not belong to any organized religion."
"Ah." Diana buttered a second roll, lowering her head over the task to hide her smile.
There were times when Maggie's eccentricities _did_ amuse her. Diana longed to accept Ben's contention that his mother was harmless. _Have a care_, she cautioned herself, and deliberately called up memories of Evan Spaulding. Being wrong had consequences. She must take her time and ask the right questions.
"I suppose you want to attend services at some house of worship," Maggie said. "It is Palm Sunday, after all. Well, you have your pick of churches in Bangor. There's First Methodist just off Essex Street, First Baptist on Harlow, Episcopal on French Street, and Hammond Street Congregational." Maggie toyed with the eggs on her plate. The runny yellow yolks looked garish against the delicate blue and white willow pattern. "Annie has already left for St. John's. A pity you were not up early enough to go with her."
"I'm not Catholic."
Years on the road with Todd's Touring Thespians had weaned Diana away from regular worship services. Actors customarily slept late on Sundays or were traveling to the next stand on that day. The pretext of going to church, however, would give her an hour or two of freedom to do as she wished.
"I believe," she said, "that I will go to the Baptist church." The location was admirably suited to her real plan.
* * * *
A short time later, Ernest dropped her off in front of a sturdy brick structure. "I'll walk to Dr. Northcote's office after services," she told him, then watched the buggy drive away. As soon as it was out of sight, she set out in the same direction on foot, moving at a brisk pace in spite of the hilly terrain. She darted past the turn to Ben's office. The house she sought was not far beyond.
She knocked at the kitchen door this time, although she suspected that all the gossiping old biddies who might spread word of a "lady" visiting Miss Jenny's place would be in church at this hour. "Are you alone?" she asked when Clarissa opened it. "I need to speak with you. In private."
"Ask questions, you mean." Clarissa's face wore a sly look as she motioned Diana through the door. "I hear tell you work for one of them big New York newspapers."
"That's true." Diana wondered how she'd found out. Aaron, she supposed. "I had to earn my own living after my husband died."
"Same as me," Clarissa said.
Diana did not correct any assumptions Clarissa might be making. She wanted the older woman's cooperation. "Can we talk here? I don't want to get you in trouble with Miss Jenny."
"She's gone for her usual Sunday drive, but you're right. She'd turn me out if she caught me telling tales out of school. Real particular, Miss Jenny is, about keeping information on her clients what you might call confidential. She says we're bound to respect their privacy, just like their doctors and their lawyers."
"An admirable philosophy." Diana's tone was dry. "How long do we have before she comes back?"
"Tell you what. If she turns up while you're still here, we'll just let her think you're here for the same reason other respectable women come. Got a dollar?"
Puzzled but game, Diana produced four quarters. Foxe had been generous. She'd reimbursed Ben, and paid Maggie's dressmaker for all but the one gown Maggie insisted was a gift, and still had more than enough money for a train ticket back to New York.
Clarissa handed over a small package wrapped in brown paper. Anxious to get on with her questioning, Diana tucked it into her bag and began. "You've known Mr. Aaron a long time, haven't you, Clarissa? He even put you in one of his paintings."
With a glance down at her substantial body, Clarissa placed one hand under each breast and hefted them. "Got these immortalized in their prime," she said with considerable pride. "Mr. Aaron gived me a sketch to keep for myself, too."
"So you two were ... friends?"
Clarissa regarded her with suspicion. "You won't do nothing to hurt Mr. Aaron?"
"I have only his best interests at heart. I think he may have a great future as an artist, if he's allowed to continue to paint."
"Sit down," Clarissa invited, reaching for the coffee pot keeping warm on the back of the woodstove. "Take off your coat. If you promise me you won't let on to Miss Jenny who told you any of this, I'll answer your questions."
"Fair enough. When did you first meet Aaron?"
"Must have been seven or eight years ago now," Clarissa said. "I was just a skinny young thing then, new to the game. The way I heard it, old Mr. Northcote, Mr. Ben and Mr. Aaron's father, brought both them boys here when they was barely into long pants, but that was a long time afore I come here."
Diana sipped her coffee, telling herself that she shouldn't be shocked, but this was Ben Clarissa was talking about. She didn't like to think of him gaining his first experience of women in Jenny's whorehouse. "Let's focus on Aaron," she said. "Tell me what you know first-hand about him."
"Well, he's always been a strange one," Clarissa admitted. "Has these funny spells when he'll start to talk to thin air. Communin' with his muse, he calls it. Sometimes. Others he just acts like he's forgot where he is. One time he walked right out on me, like he didn't see me there on the bed, all ready and waiting."
"What happened the other night?"
"I expect he's got a new model." Clarissa met Diana's eyes across the kitchen table. "Seen it happen before. First he flatters a girl into posing for him. Then he remembers she's a whore. You probably think whores don't have feelings, but we do. Poor Flora was in tears because of what he said to her and she wasn't the first he made cry."
"Did he ever strike one of you? Pull a knife?"
"Oh, no! He's not violent."
"But the other night -- "
"Mr. Aaron never hurts any of the girls." Clarissa cut in. "Never said he didn't break a few bits of crockery. When he gets going, he shouts, too. What with Flora carrying on, making a fuss because Mr. Aaron told her she was too ugly to model for him anymore -- ugly inside, he told her -- Miss Jenny sent for Dr. Northcote."
"Does that happen often? Mr. Aaron coming here and getting upset, I mean. And does Dr. Northcote always come rescue his brother?"
"The last time Mr. Aaron caused a row, last summer that was, a neighbor sent for the marshal, and he told Dr. Northcote that he'd lock Mr. Aaron up if he disturbed the peace again. So Dr Northcote, he asked Miss Jenny special to send for him first. Then he went away, a'course. But we scarce saw Mr. Aaron all the while Dr. Northcote was gone, so it didn't matter."

Clarissa stared out the window, watching a robin in the back yard. Diana waited, hoping she'd volunteer more. After a moment her patience was rewarded.
"He looks out for his own, Dr. Northcote does, no matter what. Why, I remember hearing how once, back when Dr. Northcote was first setting up his practice, before I knew either of them, that it was him Mr. Aaron was calling names. They had one bang-up fist fight, right here in this house. Ended up with Mr. Aaron knocked out cold. Dr. Northcote was some broke up about that. Never meant to hit him so hard, he said."
The idea that Ben, not Aaron, had been the violent one gave Diana pause.
"Dr. Northcote thinks Aaron might have followed him when he left Bangor last fall, and caused some trouble in some of the places he visited. Aaron won't say where he was. He claims he can't remember. You said he couldn't have been in San Francisco in January. How can you be so sure of that, Clarissa? If would mean a lot to Dr. Northcote to have proof his brother was right here in Bangor."
"You promise you won't let on to Miss Jenny it was me that told you?"
"I swear it."
Clarissa finished her coffee, plainly troubled by the prospect of incurring her employer's wrath. At last, however, she lowered the cup and gave Diana a conspiratorial wink. "He was at the doctor's office. Upstairs over the surgery. All through the middle part of January."
"You're certain?"
"Course I'm certain. Sometimes he has these spells where he can't abide other people at all. That Mrs. Northcote, Mr. Aaron's mother, she's not the easiest person to live with."
Although Diana took Clarissa's point, she couldn't help wondering how the woman had learned of Aaron's whereabouts. "If he didn't want company -- "
"I do the housekeeping at Dr. Northcote's office, so I have a key. I went around there, on the eighth of January it was. I remember, because it was Madam Yvonne's birthday on the seventh. She's one of Miss Jenny's competitors and she always throws herself a big party, just to pull customers away from us. Anyway, there was Mr. Aaron, holed up in the little room under the eaves."
"Painting?"
"Not that I saw. Just hiding out. Anyway, he made me promise him that I wouldn't tell anyone where he was, and I've kept that promise. Until now."
If Aaron had been in Bangor on the eighth, there was no way he could have reached San Francisco by the ninth.
Clarissa's face wore an indulgent smile. "Once I knew he was there, I made sure he ate right. He didn't like me fussing, but I just ignored his complaints. Men need looking after, you know. They just hate like the dickens to admit it."
* * * *
When Diana left Miss Jenny's she had only a short distance to walk to reach Ben's office. Ernest was waiting for her there. "Dr. Northcote's been called out again," he told her. "Said I was to take you home."
"The man is entirely too dedicated to his patients," Diana muttered.
Ernest took offense. "Lot of 'em waited till he come back for doctoring. Didn't trust the young whippersnapper he asked to cover his practice for him."
Without giving her time to reply, Ernest went to hitch the horse to the buggy. Left alone, Diana studied the neat, orderly room in which those patients waited for Ben to see them. It was impeccably clean, speaking well of Clarissa's abilities as a housekeeper.
Belatedly, she remembered the small packet Clarissa had sold her, and a suspicion of what it held sent heat rushing into her face. First checking to make sure no one would walk in while she examined it, she tore the paper and looked inside. As she'd guessed, it contained a sponge and a slip of paper with instructions for using it to prevent pregnancy. Hastily rewrapping the contents, she stuffed the packet back into her bag.
* * * *
Diana intended to go straight to her own room when she returned to the house, but as soon as she entered, she heard voices in the front parlor. Both were familiar. With a sinking heart, she went to join Maggie and her guest.
"Why look, Mrs. Northcote!" Nathan Todd exclaimed when Diana appeared at the door. "It is that famous New York reviewer, the one who so dislikes your stories."
Toddy knew _Maggie_ had written them? Astonished, Diana struggled to make sense of this new development. When they'd been stranded on the train, Ben had been posing as Damon Bathory. How could Toddy have discovered his real name, let alone unmask Maggie as the true author of Damon Bathory's terrifying tales?
"How long have you known?" she demanded.
His burst of good-natured laughter surprised her. "Half an hour," he said. He glanced at his pocket watch and grinned. "Give or take a few minutes."
"The better question is _how_ he knew." Maggie occupied the rococo sofa, Cedric ensconced on her lap. "It seems the word is out. Your friend arrived on the morning train and heard all about me at the depot."
On leaden feet, Diana came the rest of the way into the room. "What, precisely, did you hear?"
"Two men talking about the identity of Damon Bathory. Their source seemed to be Mrs. Northcote herself."
"Some of my friends appear to lack a certain discretion," Maggie said with an apologetic smile, but she didn't seem unduly concerned that the cat was out of the bag.
Silently, Diana swore. She'd have to send her story about Maggie to New York this afternoon and pray some other newspaper had not already got wind of the news. It would be touch and go whether Maggie had time to warn her publisher before the item was picked up by the Boston papers.
"How did you know I was here?" Diana asked Toddy.
"Oh, I told him about you," Maggie admitted. "Why not? It was obvious he knew you and equally clear he's a fine fellow. After all, he came here to offer me a splendid business opportunity."
"Business?" With every bit of new information she gained, Diana grew more confused. She sank wearily into a chair and waited for the next revelation.
"Congratulate me, Diana," Toddy said. "I am to dramatize the works of Damon Bathory."
"I should congratulate Mrs. Northcote." Diana turned her head to address Ben's mother. "You are fortunate Mr. Todd bothered to ask permission, Maggie. It's all too common a theatrical practice to take plot, characters, even dialogue, directly from a novel without troubling to get the permission of the novelist."
"I had no idea." Maggie's sharp eyes, as they pinioned Toddy, said differently. All at once, Diana saw this development as Maggie must. Ben's mother had been worried that her upcoming meeting with her publisher would not go well. Here, presented on a silver platter, was an alternate means of reaching an audience.
"It's all the fuss over that unauthorized dramatization of H. Rider Haggard's _She_," Toddy complained. "It has turned into a major plagiarism case in the courts. Smart money says unscrupulous playwrights are due for a reckoning. They're going to be brought to account for their sins." He shrugged. "I thought it wise to avoid litigation."
Maggie nodded sagely. "I knew you were trustworthy. I have a sense about people." She stroked Cedric lovingly. "Cats have the same ability. Those they like are invariably worthy of their affection. I was a cat myself in another life." She paused to let that statement garner its proper reaction, then spoke to Diana. "I am sure you two have things to say to each other. Do not go upsetting this lovely man, my dear. I envision a brilliant future on the stage for my characters."
With Cedric draped over one shoulder, she exited the parlor. Toddy rose politely and stood staring after her, mustaches quivering as he tried to quell his laughter, but all trace of amusement vanished when he shifted his attention to Diana.
"Well, my dear, I have a bone to pick with you." He stalked towards her, a determined gleam in his eyes.
For one disconcerting moment, Diana imagined that she was back in that alley in New York. She laughed nervously when Toddy, seeing her reaction, backed off, giving her a puzzled look. "Why are you cowering? You never cower."
Stiffening her spine, she sat up straight. It had not been Nathan Todd who attacked her. He was too heavy-set. Charles Underly? Perhaps. Or Billy Sims. But not Toddy. Besides, he had no motive. She had never criticized _his_ acting in print.
"What bone do you have to pick?" She was pleased to discover her voice was steady.
"It's about what you wrote in last Wednesday's column."
"What are you talking about? I haven't written a word for 'Today's Tidbits' since I left New York."
"Someone has."
"Horatio Foxe." She should have known.
"Your editor?"
"Yes. The same one who added gossip to my column once before."
"Confound it, Diana. We thought you'd returned to New York after the storm. Do you mean to tell me you've been here all along?"
"I've been working on a story about Damon Bathory."
"But ... but everyone thinks you've continued to write your reviews." He grimaced. "Well, that explains one thing. Last Wednesday's column was a selection of comments from previous pieces ... the worst of the worst, including your comments about the quality of the acting in _The Duchess of Calabria_."
"I'm sorry, Toddy. I'd have stopped him if I'd known."
"Lavinia was very upset."
"I imagine she was." And if Lavinia had been upset, so had Toddy.
"You can make it up to her. All you have to do is write a new, favorable review and get it into the local paper."
"But, Toddy," she said gently, "I expressed my honest opinion about her acting in the first place. I can hardly reverse myself without lying."
"What's wrong with lying?"
Diana thought about his words for a moment. If she was right, if someone in Toddy's company was a killer, then she might be able to provoke him into another attack by writing a new review. She hoped she could. Finding the real killer was the only way to be sure Horatio Foxe did not make accusations against Ben.
"Miss Ross's interpretations of her roles are startling," she said, composing aloud. If she did write a new review, she could make amends to Lavinia at the same time. "One cannot help but compare her performance to those of some of the greatest actresses of our time. How's that?" As long as she did not say just how badly Lavinia's performance would compare, she was not lying, and the ingenue could take the words any way she liked.
Toddy beamed at her. "Excellent. Can you write something similar about Charles?"
"No."
In fact, she intended to be even more brutally critical of his performance and that of Billy Sims. There were now her primary suspects. Remembering the evil look Underly had given her on the train, she shivered. If his eyes had shot real daggers, she'd be dead right now.
"You know, Toddy," she ventured, "it would be no great loss to the company if you dispensed with Charles Underly's services."
"I'd sooner let Sims go," Toddy said. "You were right in your assessment of his acting ability. A cigar store Indian displays more emotion on the stage. Tell you what. Don't mention Sims at all in your new review. Just add a few lines of praise for Underly and we'll call it square."
"I cannot make the entire cast sound like geniuses on the stage. Bangor may not be New York, but the theatergoers here aren't stupid." She grinned suddenly. "They have seen all kinds of performers at their Opera House, even Oscar Wilde."
* * * *
Ben came home tired. He listened without comment to Diana's account of what she and his mother had been up to since he'd last seen them. All the while emotions roiled and bubbled inside him like volcanic lava about to erupt.
"I don't know which infuriates me more," he said in a voice as tight as the knot inside his chest, "Mother blithely handing over stage rights to her stories, or you spending time alone with a man you've now decided could have murdered three women and attempted to dispose of you."
"I don't think _Toddy_ killed anyone. He was not the man in the alley."
All that prevented Ben from exploding was his mother's arrival on the scene.
"What are the two of you talking about?" she asked from the doorway. "I really think, Ben dear, that one of you had best tell me what's been going on. I haven't signed anything yet, you know. I can change my mind if this Todd fellow is unreliable."
She'd clearly overheard too much to be put off with less than the truth. Resigned, Ben gave her a terse summary of the few facts they knew about three murders in Philadelphia, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. Then he told her about the attack on Diana and her "accident" on the train. Finally he explained Horatio Foxe's theory and offered up Diana's alternative -- that someone from Todd's Touring Thespians was a murderer.
"To prevent my editor from accusing Ben of the crimes, I propose to find evidence against Charles Underly," Diana said when Ben stopped speaking. "I am certain he's the guilty one. Unless it's Billy Sims."
"My son was gone on all three of those dates, and while you were in New York City." The color had drained out of Maggie Northcote's face. Belatedly, she had realized what Aaron's absences could signify.
"No." Diana gave the other woman's forearm a comforting squeeze. "Aaron was in Bangor when the women in California were killed. I talked to someone who saw him here in January."
Her expression cleared. "Well, then, there's nothing to worry about." With a lightning-swift shift of mood, she turned to Ben. "Do you think having a suspected murderer in a lead role of a dramatization of one of my stories would attract a bigger audience?"
"If someone in Todd's troupe _is_ guilty," Ben snapped, "then Diana is in mortal danger." Their apparent unconcern drove him over the edge. He grasped Diana by the shoulders and fixed her with a hard stare, wishing he _did_ have the skill to hypnotize her into obedience. "Go back to New York. Take your story on Damon Bathory to Foxe in person."