AS EVENING came on and the fireflies began flashing over the grounds of her luxurious Chevy Chase home, Dorothy Vaneman went upstairs to dress. Mrs. Vaneman's eyes followed her daughter's tall, trim figure more than a little apprehensively. She was wondering about this engagement. True, Richard was a fine chap and might make a name for himself, but at present he was a nobody and, socially, he would always be a nobody . . . and men of wealth, of distinction, of impeccable social status, had paid court . . . but Dorothy—no, "stubborn" was not too strong a term—when Dorothy made up her mind . . .
Unaware of her mother's look, Dorothy went happily up the stairs. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was only a little after six, and sat down at her dressing table, upon which there stood a picture of Richard. A strong, not unhandsome face, with keen, wide-set gray eyes; the wide brow of the thinker, surmounted by thick, unruly, dark hair; the firm, square jaw of the born fighter—such was the man whose vivid personality, fierce impetuosity, and indomitable perseverance had set him apart from all other men ever since their first meeting, and who had rapidly cleared the field of all other aspirants for her favor. Her breath came faster and her cheeks showed a lovelier color as she sat there, the lights playing in her heavy auburn hair and a tender smile upon her lips.
Dorothy dressed with unusual care and, the last touches deftly made, went downstairs and out upon the porch to wait for her guest.
Half an hour passed. Mrs. Vaneman came to the door and said anxiously, "I wonder if anything could have happened to him?"
"Of course there hasn't." Dorothy tried to keep all concern out of her voice. "Traffic jams—or perhaps he has been picked up again for speeding. Can Alice keep dinner a little longer?"
"To be sure," her mother answered, and disappeared. But when another half hour had passed Dorothy went in, holding her head somewhat higher than usual and wearing a say-something-if-you-dare expression.
The meal was eaten in polite disregard of the unused plate. The family left the table. For Dorothy the evening was endless; but at the usual time it was , and then ten-thirty, and then Seaton appeared.
Dorothy opened the door, but Seaton did not come in. He stood close to her, but did not touch her. His eyes searched her face anxiously. Upon his face was a look of indecision, almost of fright—a look so foreign to his usual expression that the girl smiled in spite of herself.
"I'm awfully sorry, sweetheart, but I couldn't help it. You've got a right to be sore and I ought to be kicked from here to there, but are you too sore to let me talk to you for a couple of minutes?"
"I was never so mad at anybody in my life, until I started getting scared witless. I simply couldn't and can't believe you'd do anything like that on purpose. Come in."
He came. She closed the door. He half-extended his arms, then paused, irresolute, like a puppy hoping for a pat but expecting a kick. She grinned then, and came into his arms.
"But what happened, Dick?" she asked later. "Something terrible, to make you act like this. I've never seen you act so—so funny."
"Not terrible, Dotty, just extraordinary. So outrageously extraordinary that before I begin I wish you'd look me in the eye and tell me if you have any doubts about my sanity."
She led him into the living room, held his face up to the light, and made a pretense of studying his eyes.
"Richard Ballinger Seaton, I certify that you are entirely sane—quite the sanest man I ever knew. Now tell me the worst. Did you blow up the Bureau with a C-bomb?"
"Nothing like that,” he laughed. "Just a thing I can't understand. You know I've been reworking the platinum wastes that have been accumulating for the last ten or fifteen years."
"Yes, you told me you'd recovered a small fortune in platinum and some of those other metals. You thought you'd found a brand-new one. Did you?"
"I sure did. After I'd separated out everything I could identify, there was quite a lot of something left—something that didn't respond to any tests I knew or could find in the literature.
"That brings us up to today. As a last resort, because there wasn't anything else left, I started testing for trans-uranics, and there it was. A stable—almost stable. I mean—isotope; up where no almost-stable isotopes are supposed to exist. Up where I would've bet my last shirt no such isotope could possibly exist.
"Well, I was trying to electrolyze it out when the fireworks started. The solution started to fizz over, so I grabbed the beaker—fast. The wires dropped onto the steam-bath and the whole outfit, except the beaker, took off out of the window at six or eight times the speed of sound and in a straight line, without dropping a foot in as far as I could keep it in sight with a pair of good binoculars. And my hunch is that it's still going. That's what happened. It's enough to knock any physicist into an outside loop, and with my one-cylinder brain I got to thinking about it and simply didn't come to until after . All I can say is, I'm sorry and I love you. As much as I ever did or could. More, if possible. And always will. Can you let it go—this time?"
"Dick . . . oh, Dick!"
There was more—much more—but eventually Seaton mounted his motorcycle and Dorothy walked beside him down to the street. A final kiss and the man drove away.
After the last faint glimmer of red tail-light had disappeared In the darkness Dorothy made her way to her room, breathing along and slightly tremulous, but supremely happy sigh.