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scarcely worth the lives of three young men. The question
arose as to whether Tommy and Chillicheff had been fright-
ened.
‘When I was cold,’ Tommy said. ‘I always get scared when
I’m cold. During the war I was always frightened when I
was cold.’
McKibben stood up.
‘I must leave. To-morrow morning I’m going to Innsbruck
by car with my wife and children—and the governess.’
‘I’m going there to-morrow, too,’ said Dick.
‘Oh, are you?’ exclaimed McKibben. ‘Why not come with
us? It’s a big Packard and there’s only my wife and my chil-
dren and myself— and the governess—‘
‘I can’t possibly—‘
‘Of course she’s not really a governess,’ McKibben con-
cluded, looking rather pathetically at Dick. ‘As a matter of
fact my wife knows your sister-in-law, Baby Warren.’
But Dick was not to be drawn in a blind contract.
‘I’ve promised to travel with two men.’
‘Oh,’ McKibben’s face fell. ‘Well, I’ll say good-by.’ He un-
screwed two blooded wire-hairs from a nearby table and
departed; Dick pictured the jammed Packard pounding to-
ward Innsbruck with the McKibbens and their children and
their baggage and yapping dogs— and the governess.
‘The paper says they know the man who killed him,’ said
Tommy. ‘But his cousins did not want it in the papers, be-
cause it happened in a speakeasy. What do you think of
that?’
‘It’s what’s known as family pride.’

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