t  his expression. He looked--and this is said in
all contempt for  the babbled  slander of his garden--as if he had "killed a
man." For  a  moment the  set  of his face  could be described in just  that
fantastic way. It  passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy,  denying
everything, defending  his name against  accusations that had not been made.
But  with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he
gave  that up,  and only the  dead dream fought on as the  afternoon slipped
away, trying to  touch  what was no longer tangible,  struggling  unhappily,
undespairingly,  toward that  lost voice across  the room.  The voice begged
again to go. "PLEASE, Tom! I can't stand this any more." Her frightened eyes
told   that  whatever  intentions,  whatever  courage,  she  had  had,  were
definitely  gone. "You two start on home, Daisy," said Tom. "In Mr. Gatsby's
car."  She  looked  at  Tom, alarmed  now, but he  insisted with magnanimous
scorn. "Go on. He won't annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous
little  flirtation  is over." They were gone, without  a word,  snapped out,
made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After  a  moment
Tom got up and began  wrapping the  unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel.
"Want any  of this stuff? Jordan? . . . Nick?" I didn't  answer. "Nick?"  He
asked again. "What?" "Want any?"  "No  . . . I just remembered that to-day's
my birthday."  I was thirty. Before  me  stretched the  portentous, menacing
road of a new decade. It was  seven o'clock when we  got into the coupe with
him  and  started  for Long Island. Tom  talked  incessantly,  exulting  and
laughing,  but his  voice was as  remote from  Jordan and me as  the foreign
clamor  on  the sidewalk or  the  tumult  of  the elevated  overhead.  Human
sympathy has  its  limits,  and  we were  content  to  let  all their tragic
arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty--the  promise of a decade
of loneliness, a thinning list of  single men to know, a thinning brief-case
of enthusiasm,  thinning hair.  But there was Jordan beside me,  who, unlike
Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age.  As
we passed over  the dark bridge her wan  face fell  lazily against my coat's
shoulder  and the formidable stroke of thirty died away  with the reassuring
pressure of  her  hand. So we drove  on  toward  death through  the  cooling
twilight. The young Greek,  Michaelis,  who  ran the coffee joint beside the
ashheaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He  had slept through the
heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George
Wilson sick  in his  office--really  sick, pale  as  his  own pale  hair and
shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to  go to  bed, but Wilson  refused,
saying that he'd miss a lot  of business if  he did. While his neighbor  was
trying  to persuade him a  violent racket  broke out overhead. "I've  got my
wife  locked in  up there," explained  Wilson  calmly. "She's going to  stay
there  till  the day after  to-morrow, and then  we're going  to move away."
Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbors for four years, and Wilson
had never seemed  faintly capable of such  a statement. Generally he was one
of these  worn-out men: when  he wasn't  working,  he sat  on a chair in the
doorway and stared at the people and  the cars that passed  along the  road.
When  any one spoke  to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colorless
way.  He was his wife's man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to
find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn't say a word--instead he began
to throw curious, suspicious glances at his  visitor and ask  him  what he'd
been doing at certain  times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting
uneasy, some  workmen  came  past  the door  bound  for his restaurant,  and
Michaelis took  the opportunity  to get away, intending to come back  later.
But  he  didn't. He supposed  he forgot to, that's all. When he came outside
again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because  he
heard Mrs. Wilson's  voice,  loud and scolding, down-stairs  in  the garage.
"Beat me!" he heard her cry. "Throw me  down and beat me,  you  dirty little
coward!" A moment  later she rushed  out into the dusk, waving her hands and
shouting--before  he  could move from  his door  the  business was over. The
"death  car." as the newspapers called it,  didn't stop;  it came out of the
gathering darkness, wavered tragically  for a moment,  and then  disappeared
around the next bend. Michaelis wasn't even sure of its  color--he  told the
first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward
New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and  its  driver hurried back
to  where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the  road
and  mingled  her thick  dark  blood with  the  dust. Michaelis and this man
reached her first, but when  they had torn  open her shirtwaist, still  damp
with  perspiration, they saw that  her left breast was swinging loose like a
flap, and there was no need to  listen for the  heart beneath. The mouth was
wide open and ripped at the  corners,  as though she had choked  a little in
giving up  the  tremendous vitality she had stored so long. We saw the three
or four  automobiles and the crowd when we  were  still  some distance away.
"Wreck!" said Tom. "That's good.  Wilson'll have a little business at last."
He slowed down, but still  without any  intention of  stopping, until, as we
came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door  made
him  automatically  put  on  the  brakes.  "We'll  take  a  look,"  he  said
doubtfully, "just a  look."  I  became aware now of a hollow,  wailing sound
which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the
coupe and walked  toward the  door  resolved itself  into  the words "Oh, my
God!" uttered  over and over in a gasping  moan.  "There's some bad  trouble
here," said Tom excitedly. He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle
of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging
wire basket overhead.  Then he made a harsh  sound in his throat, and with a
violent  thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through. The
circle  closed up again  with a running murmur  of  expostulation;  it was a
minute before I could see anything  at all.  Then new  arrivals deranged the
line, and Jordan  and I  were pushed suddenly inside. Myrtle Wilson's  body,
wrapped in a blanket, and then  in another blanket,  as though she  suffered
from a chill  in the hot  night, lay  on a work-table by the  wall, and Tom,
with his back to us, was  bending over  it, motionless. Next to him  stood a
motorcycle policeman taking  down names with  much sweat and correction in a
little book. At first I couldn't find the source of the high, groaning words
that echoed  clamorously through the bare garage--then I saw Wilson standing
on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to
the doorposts  with both hands. Some  man was talking to him in  a low voice
and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson
neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to
the laden table  by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and  he
gave out incessantly his  high,  horrible call: "Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!
oh, Ga-od!  oh, my Ga-od!" Presently Tom  lifted his head with  a jerk  and,
after  staring around  the garage  with  glazed  eyes,  addressed  a mumbled
incoherent remark  to the policeman.  "M-a-y-."  the  policeman was  saying,
"-o----" "No,  r-."  corrected  the  man,  "M-a-v-r-o----"  "Listen  to me!"
muttered Tom fiercely.  "r"  said the policeman, "o----" "g----"  "g----" He
looked up as Tom's broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. "What you  want,
fella?"  "What  happened?--that's  what I  want  to  know."  "Auto  hit her.
Ins'antly  killed." "Instantly killed," repeated Tom, staring. "She  ran out
ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn't even stopus car." "There was two cars," said
Michaelis, "one comin', one goin', see?" "Going where?" asked the  policeman
keenly.  "One goin' each way. Well, she."--his hand rose toward the blankets
but stopped half way and fell to his side----" she ran out there an' the one
comin' from N'york knock right  into her, goin'  thirty  or forty  miles  an
hour." "What's the name of this  place here?" demanded  the officer. "Hasn't
got any name."  A  pale well-dressed negro stepped  near. "It  was a  yellow
car,"  he  said,  "big  yellow  car. New." "See  the  accident?"  asked  the
policeman. "No, but the car passed me down  the road, going faster'n  forty.
Going fifty,  sixty." "Come  here and let's have your  name. Look out now. I
want to get his  name." Some words of this  conversation must  have  reached
Wilson,  swaying in the  office door,  for suddenly a  new theme found voice
among his gasping cries: "You don't have to tell me what kind of car it was!
I  know what kind of car it was!" Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back
of his shoulder tighten under his  coat.  He  walked  quickly over to Wilson
and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms.  "You've
got  to  pull yourself together,"  he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson's
eyes fell upon  Tom;  he  started  up  on  his tiptoes and  then would  have
collapsed  to  his knees had not  Tom  held him upright. "Listen," said Tom,
shaking  him  a little. "I just  got here a minute ago, from New York. I was
bringing  you that coupe  we've been  talking about.  That yellow car I  was
driving  this  afternoon  wasn't  mine--do you hear? I haven't seen  it  all
afternoon." Only  the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but
the  policeman caught something  in the tone and looked over  with truculent
eyes. "What's all that?" he demanded. "I'm a friend of his." Tom  turned his
head but kept his hands firm on Wilson's  body. "He says  he  knows  the car
that did it . . . it was a yellow car." Some dim impulse moved the policeman
to look suspiciously at Tom. "And what color's your car?" "It's a blue  car,
a coupe." "We've come straight from New York," I said. Some one who had been
driving a little behind  us  confirmed  this, and the policeman turned away.
"Now, if you'll let me have that name again  correct----" Picking  up Wilson
like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him  down in a chair,  and
came  back.  "If  somebody'll  come here  and  sit  with  him,"  he  snapped
authoritatively. He  watched while the two  men standing closest  glanced at
each other and  went unwillingly into  the  room.  Then Tom shut the door on
them  and came  down the single step, his eyes  avoiding the  table.  As  he
passed close to me he whispered: "Let's get out." Self-consciously, with his
authoritative arms breaking  the way,  we pushed through the still gathering
crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild
hope  half an hour ago. Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend--then
his foot came down hard, and the coupe raced  along through the  night. In a
little  while  I  heard  a  low husky  sob,  and  saw that  the  tears  were
overflowing down his face. "The God damned coward!" he whimpered. "He didn't
even stop his car." The Buchanans' house floated suddenly toward  us through
the dark  rustling trees. Tom  stopped beside the porch and looked up at the
second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines. "Daisy's
home," he  said. As we got  out of  the car  he  glanced  at me  and frowned
slightly. "I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There's nothing we
can do to-night." A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with
decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the  porch he disposed
of the situation in a few brisk phrases.  "I'll telephone for a taxi to take
you home, and while you're waiting  you and Jordan better go  in the kitchen
and have them get  you  some supper--if  you want any." He  opened the door.
"Come in." "No,  thanks. But  I'd  be glad if you'd order me the  taxi. I'll
wait  outside." Jordan put her  hand on  my arm. "Won't you come  in, Nick?"
"No,  thanks."  I was feeling a little sick and I wanted  to be  alone.  But
Jordan lingered for a moment more. "It's only half-past nine," she said. I'd
be  damned if I'd go  in; I'd had  enough  of  all  of them for one day, and
suddenly that included Jordan too. She  must have  seen something of this in
my expression, for she turned abruptly away and  ran up the porch steps into
the house. I sat down  for a few minutes with my head  in my hands,  until I
heard the phone taken up inside and the butler's voice calling  a taxi. Then
I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the
gate.  I hadn't  gone  twenty yards when I heard my name and  Gatsby stepped
from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that
time, because  I could think of nothing  except  the luminosity  of his pink
suit under the moon. "What are you doing?" I inquired. "Just  standing here,
old sport." Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For  all I knew he
was  going  to rob the house  in a moment; I wouldn't have been surprised to
see sinister faces,  the  faces of 'Wolfshiem's people,'  behind  him in the
dark shrubbery. "Did you  see any  trouble  on the  road?"  he asked after a
minute. "Yes." He hesitated. "Was she killed?" "Yes." "I  thought so; I told
Daisy I thought so.  It's better that the shock should all come at once. She
stood it pretty well." He spoke as if  Daisy's reaction was  the only  thing
that mattered. "I got to West Egg by a side road," he went on, "and left the
car in  my  garage. I don't think anybody saw  us,  but of course I can't be
sure." I disliked him  so much by this time that I  didn't find it necessary
to tell him he was wrong.  "Who was  the woman?" he inquired. "Her name  was
Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?" "Well,  I
tried to swing the wheel----" He  broke  off, and  suddenly I guessed at the
truth. "Was Daisy  driving?"  "Yes," he said after a moment, "but  of course
I'll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was  very nervous and she
thought it would steady her  to drive--and this woman  rushed out at us just
as we were passing a car coming  the other way. It all happened in a minute,
but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody
she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car,
and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second  my hand reached the
wheel I felt the shock--it must have killed her  instantly." "It ripped  her
open----" "Don't tell me, old sport." He  winced. "Anyhow--Daisy  stepped on
it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn't, so I pulled on the emergency
brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove  on. "She'll  be all right
to-morrow,"  he said presently. "I'm just going  to wait here and see  if he
tries to bother her about that  unpleasantness this afternoon. She's  locked
herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she's going to turn the
light out and on again."  "He won't touch her,' I  said.  "He's not thinking
about her." "I don't  trust  him, old sport."  "How long are  you  going  to
wait?"  "All night, if necessary.  Anyhow, till they  all go to bed."  A new
point of  view  occurred to  me. Suppose Tom found  out that Daisy had  been
driving. He might think he saw a connection in it--he might  think anything.
I looked  at the  house; there were two or  three bright windows down-stairs
and the pink glow from Daisy's room on the second  floor. "You wait here," I
said. "I'll see if there's any sign of a commotion." I walked back along the
border of the  lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda
steps.  The  drawing-room curtains  were open, and I saw that  the room  was
empty. Crossing  the  porch where we had dined that  June night three months
before,  I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry
window. The blind was  drawn, but I found a rift at the  sill. Daisy and Tom
were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table,  with a plate of cold
fried chicken  between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently
across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and
covered her  own.  Once in  a  while  she  looked  up  at him and  nodded in
agreement.  They weren't happy, and neither of them had  touched the chicken
or the ale--and yet  they weren't unhappy  either. There was an unmistakable
air of natural intimacy about the  picture, and anybody would have said that
they were  conspiring together. As I tiptoed  from the porch I heard my taxi
feeling its way  along the dark road toward the  house.  Gatsby was  waiting
where  I had left him in  the drive. "Is  it  all quiet up there?"  he asked
anxiously.  "Yes, it's all quiet." I hesitated. "You'd better come  home and
get some  sleep." He shook his head. "I want to wait here till Daisy goes to
bed. Good night, old sport." He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned
back eagerly to his scrutiny of  the house, as though my presence marred the
sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the
moonlight--watching over nothing. Chapter 8  I  couldn't  sleep all night; a
fog-horn was  groaning incessantly  on  the  Sound, and I  tossed  half-sick
between  grotesque  reality  and savage, frightening dreams.  Toward  dawn I
heard a taxi go up Gatsby's drive, and immediately I  jumped out of bed  and
began to dress--I felt that  I  had something to tell him, something to warn
him about, and morning would be too late. Crossing his lawn,  I saw that his
front door was  still open and he was leaning  against a table in the  hall,
heavy with dejection or sleep. "Nothing happened," he said wanly. "I waited,
and  about four o'clock she came to the window and stood there for a  minute
and then turned out the light." His house had never seemed so enormous to me
as it did that night when we  hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes.
We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable
feet of dark wall for electric light switches--once I tumbled with a sort of
splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of
dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as  though they hadn't been aired
for many days. I found  the humidor on an unfamiliar table,  with two stale,
dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room,
we sat  smoking out into the darkness. "You ought to go away," I said. "It's
pretty certain they'll trace your car." "Go  away  NOW, old  sport?"  "Go to
Atlantic  City for a week, or up to Montreal." He wouldn't  consider  it. He
couldn't possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was
clutching  at some last hope  and I couldn't bear to shake him  free. It was
this  night  that  he told  me the  strange  story  of  his  youth  with Dan
Cody--told it to me  because "Jay Gatsby." had broken  up like glass against
Tom's hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played  out. I think
that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted
to talk  about  Daisy. She was the first "nice"  girl he had  ever known. In
various  unrevealed capacities he had come  in contact with such people, but
always  with  indiscernible barbed  wire between. He  found  her  excitingly
desirable. He  went to  her  house, at first with other  officers  from Camp
Taylor, then alone. It  amazed  him--he  had never  been in such a beautiful
house  before. but what  gave it an air of  breathless  intensity, was  that
Daisy lived there--it was as casual a thing to her  as his tent  out at camp
was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a  hint of bedrooms up-stairs
more beautiful and  cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant  activities
taking place through its corridors, and of romances that  were not musty and
laid away already in lavender  but  fresh and breathing and redolent of this
year's  shining  motor-cars  and  of  dances  whose  flowers  were  scarcely
withered. It  excited  him, too, that many men had  already loved  Daisy--it
increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house,
pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant  emotions. But
he  knew  that  he  was  in Daisy's  house by  a  colossal accident. However
glorious might be his  future  as Jay Gatsby, he was at  present a penniless
young  man without a  past, and at any  moment  the  invisible  cloak of his
uniform might slip from his  shoulders. So he made the most of his time.  He
took  what he could get,  ravenously and unscrupulously-- eventually he took
Daisy  one  still  October night, took her  because he  had no real right to
touch her hand.  He might have despised himself, for he  had certainly taken
her under  false pretenses. I don't mean  that he  had traded on his phantom
millions, but  he had deliberately given  Daisy a sense of security;  he let
her believe that he was a person from much the same stratum as herself--that
he was fully able  to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had  no such
facilities--he  had  no  comfortable family standing behind him, and  he was
liable  at the  whim of an impersonal  government to be blown anywhere about
the world. But he didn't despise  himself and it didn't turn  out  as he had
imagined. He  had intended, probably, to take what he could  and go--but now
he found that he had committed himself to the following of  a grail. He knew
that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn't realize just how extraordinary a
"nice" girl could be. She vanished into her  rich house, into her rich, full
life, leaving Gatsby--nothing. He felt  married to  her, that was  all. When
they met again, two  days  later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was,
somehow,  betrayed.  Her  porch  was  bright  with  the   bought  luxury  of
star-shine; the wicker of  the  settee  squeaked fashionably  as she  turned
toward him and  he  kissed  her curious and lovely  mouth. She  had caught a
cold, and it made her voice huskier  and more charming than ever, and Gatsby
was overwhelmingly  aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and
preserves, of the freshness of many clothes,  and  of  Daisy, gleaming  like
silver,  safe  and proud above  the  hot  struggles  of  the poor. "I  can't
describe to  you how surprised  I was to find out  I loved her, old sport. I
even hoped for a while that she'd throw me over, but she didn't, because she
was in love with me too. She thought  I knew a lot because I  knew different
things from her. . .  . Well, there I was,  'way  off my  ambitions, getting
deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn't care. What was the
use  of doing great things if I could have a  better time telling her what I
was going to do?"  On the last afternoon before he went abroad,  he sat with
Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire
in the  room and her cheeks  flushed.  Now and then she moved and he changed
his  arm a little,  and once he kissed her  dark shining hair. The afternoon
had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the
long  parting the next  day promised.  They had  never been closer  in their
month of love, nor communicated  more profoundly one with another, than when
she brushed silent lips  against his coat's shoulder or when he  touched the
end  of  her   fingers,  gently,   as  though   she  were  asleep.  He   did
extraordinarily  well in the war.  He  was a captain before he went  to  the
front, and following the Argonne battles he got his majority and the command
of the divisional machine-guns. After the Armistice he tried  frantically to
get  home, but  some  complication or misunderstanding sent  him  to  Oxford
instead.  He  was worried now--there  was  a  quality  of nervous despair in
Daisy's letters. She didn't  see why he couldn't  come. She was  feeling the
pressure  of  the  world  outside,  and she wanted to see him  and feel  his
presence beside  her  and be reassured that  she was doing  the right  thing
after all.  For Daisy  was young and her  artificial  world was redolent  of
orchids  and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm
of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes.
All  night the saxophones  wailed the  hopeless comment of  the BEALE STREET
BLUES. while  a hundred pairs  of  golden and silver  slippers shuffled  the
shining dust.  At  the gray tea hour there were always  rooms  that throbbed
incessantly with this low, sweet  fever, while fresh faces  drifted here and
there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor. Through this
twilight universe Daisy began  to move again with the  season;  suddenly she
was  again keeping  half  a dozen  dates a day with half  a  dozen  men, and
drowsing asleep at dawn with  the  beads  and  chiffon  of  an evening dress
tangled among  dying orchids on the floor beside  her bed. And all  the time
something  within her  was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped
now, immediately--and the decision must be made  by  some force--of love, of
money,  of unquestionable practicality--that was close  at  hand. That force
took shape in  the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan.  There
was a wholesome bulkiness about  his person  and his position, and Daisy was
flattered. Doubtless there  was a certain struggle and a certain relief. The
letter  reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford. It was dawn now on Long
Island and  we  went about  opening  the  rest of the  windows  down-stairs,
filling the  house  with gray-turning, gold-turning  light. The shadow of  a
tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing  among the
blue leaves. There  was  a slow, pleasant  movement  in  the air, scarcely a
wind, promising a  cool, lovely  day. "I don't  think  she  ever loved him."
Gatsby turned around from a window and looked at me challengingly. "You must
remember, old sport, she was very excited this  afternoon. He told her those
things in a way that frightened her--that made it look as if I was some kind
of cheap sharper. And  the result was she hardly knew what she  was saying."
He sat down gloomily. "Of course she might have loved him just for a minute,
when they  were  first married--and loved me  more  even then,  do you see?"
Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.  "In any case," he said, "it was
just  personal." What  could  you  make  of  that,  except  to  suspect some
intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn't be measured? He came
back from France  when Tom and Daisy were still on  their wedding  trip, and
made a  miserable but irresistible  journey to Louisville on the last of his
army pay. He stayed there a  week, walking the streets where their footsteps
had  clicked  together  through  the  November  night   and  revisiting  the
out-of-the-way places  to  which they had driven  in  her white car. Just as
Daisy's house  had  always  seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other
houses,  so his  idea of the city itself, even though she was  gone from it,
was  pervaded  with  a  melancholy  beauty. He left  feeling that  if he had
searched harder, he might have found her--that he  was  leaving  her behind.
The  day-coach--he  was penniless  now--was hot.  He went out  to  the  open
vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the
backs  of unfamiliar buildings  moved  by.  Then out into the spring fields,
where a yellow trolley raced them for a  minute with people in it who  might
once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street. The track
curved  and now it  was  going away from the sun,  which as  it sank  lower,
seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had
drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only
a wisp of air, to save a  fragment of the spot  that she had made lovely for
him. But it was all  going by too fast now for his blurred eyes and  he knew
that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever. It was
nine o'clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the porch. The night
had made a sharp difference in the weather and there was an autumn flavor in
the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby's former servants, came to the
foot of  the  steps. "I'm  going to  drain  the  pool  to-day,  Mr.  Gatsby.
Leaves'll start falling pretty  soon, and then  there's always trouble  with
the  pipes."  "Don't  do  it  to-day,"  Gatsby  answered.  He  turned to  me
apologetically. "You know, old sport, I've never used that pool all summer?"
I looked at my  watch and stood up.  "Twelve minutes to my train."  I didn't
want to go  to the city. I wasn't worth a decent stroke of work, but it  was
more than that--I didn't want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then
another, before I could get myself away. "I'll call you up," I said finally.
"Do,  old sport."  "I'll  call you about noon."  We walked  slowly down  the
steps. "I  suppose Daisy'll call too."  He looked at me anxiously, as  if he
hoped I'd corroborate this. "I suppose so." "Well,  good-by." We shook hands
and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I  remembered  something
and turned around.  "They're  a  rotten crowd," I  shouted across  the lawn.
"You're worth the whole damn  bunch put  together." I've  always been glad I
said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved
of him from beginning to  end. First he  nodded politely, and then  his face
broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we'd been in ecstatic
cahoots on  that  fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a  suit made a
bright spot of color  against the white steps,  and I  thought of the  night
when  I first came to his ancestral home, three  months before. The lawn and
drive  had  been  crowded  with  the  faces  of those  who  guessed  at  his
corruption--and  he had stood on  those  steps, concealing his incorruptible
dream, as he waved them good-by. I  thanked him for his hospitality. We were
always thanking him  for  that--I  and  the others.  "Good-by," I called. "I
enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby." Up in the city, I tried for a while to  list the
quotations  on  an  interminable  amount of stock, then  I fell asleep in my
swivel-chair. Just before noon the  phone  woke  me, and  I  started up with
sweat breaking out on my forehead. It  was Jordan Baker; she often called me
up  at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels
and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually
her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from
a  green  golf-links  had  come  sailing in at the  office window, but  this
morning it seemed harsh and dry. "I've left Daisy's house,"  she said.  "I'm
at Hempstead, and I'm going down to Southampton this afternoon." Probably it
had been  tactful to  leave  Daisy's house,  but the act annoyed me, and her
next  remark  made  me  rigid. "You weren't so nice to  me last night." "How
could it have  mattered then?" Silence for  a moment. Then: "However--I want
to see you." "I want to see you, too." "Suppose  I don't go  to Southampton,
and come  into  town this afternoon?"  "No--I don't  think this  afternoon."
"Very well." "It's  impossible this afternoon. Various----"  We talked  like
that for a  while, and then abruptly we weren't talking any longer. I  don't
know which  of us hung up with  a sharp click,  but I  know I didn't care. I
couldn't have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to
her again  in this world.  I called Gatsby's house a  few minutes later, but
the line was  busy. I  tried four times; finally an exasperated central told
me the  wire was being kept open for  long distance from Detroit. Taking out
my  time-table, I drew a small circle around  the  three-fifty train. Then I
leaned back in my chair and  tried to think. It was just noon. When I passed
the ashheaps on  the train that morning I  had crossed  deliberately  to the
other side of the car. I suppose there'd be a curious crowd around there all
day  with  little  boys searching  for  dark  spots in  the dust,  and  some
garrulous man telling over and over what  had happened, until it became less
and less  real  even  to  him and he  could  tell it  no  longer, and Myrtle
Wilson's  tragic  achievement was forgotten. Now I  want to go back a little
and tell what happened  at the garage after we  left there the night before.
They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have  broken
her rule  against drinking that  night, for  when she arrived she was stupid
with liquor and unable to understand  that the ambulance had already gone to
Flushing. When they convinced her  of this,  she  immediately fainted, as if
that was the intolerable part of the affair. Some one, kind or curious, took
her in his car and drove her in the wake of  her  sister's body. Until  long
after midnight a changing  crowd lapped up  against the front of the garage,
while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a
while the door of the office  was open,  and every  one  who  came into  the
garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally someone said it was a shame,
and closed the door. Michaelis and several other  men were with him;  first,
four or five  men, later two  or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask
the last stranger  to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he  went back
to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone
with  Wilson  until  dawn. About  three  o'clock  the  quality  of  Wilson's
incoherent muttering  changed--he grew quieter and began to  talk  about the
yellow  car. He announced  that he had a way of finding out  whom the yellow
car belonged to, and then  he  blurted out that a  couple of months  ago his
wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose  swollen. But
when he heard himself say this, he flinched and  began to cry "Oh, my  God!"
again in his groaning  voice. Michaelis  made a clumsy attempt  to  distract
him.  "How  long have you been married, George? Come on there,  try and  sit
still a  minute and answer  my question.  How long  have  you been married?"
"Twelve years." "Ever had any children? Come  on, George, sit still--I asked
you a question. Did you ever have any children?" The hard brown beetles kept
thudding  against  the dull light,  and whenever Michaelis  heard  a car  go
tearing along the road outside  it sounded to him like the car  that  hadn't
stopped a few hours before.  He didn't like  to go into the garage,  because
the work  bench was stained where  the  body  had  been  lying, so  he moved
uncomfortably  around  the  office--he   knew  every  object  in  it  before
morning--and from  time to time  sat down beside  Wilson  trying to keep him
more quiet. "Have you got a church  you go to sometimes, George?  Maybe even
if you haven't been there for a long time? Maybe  I could call up the church
and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you,  see?" "Don't belong
to any." "You ought to have a church, George, for  times like this. You must
have  gone to  church  once.  Didn't you  get married in  a church?  Listen,
George, listen  to me. Didn't you get married in a church?" "That was a long
time ago." The effort of  answering  broke  the rhythm of his rocking--for a
moment he  was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came
back  into his faded  eyes. "Look in the drawer there," he said, pointing at
the desk.  "Which  drawer?" "That  drawer--that one." Michaelis  opened  the
drawer nearest  his hand.  There  was  nothing  in it but a small, expensive
dog-leash,  made of  leather  and braided  silver.  It  was  apparently new.
"This?" he inquired,  holding it up. Wilson stared and  nodded.  "I found it
yesterday afternoon. She  tried  to tell  me about  it,  but I knew  it  was
something funny." "You mean your wife bought  it?" "She had  it  wrapped  in
tissue paper on her bureau." Michaelis didn't see anything odd in  that, and
he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash.
But  conceivably Wilson had heard  some of  these same  explanations before,
from Myrtle, because he began saying "Oh, my God!" again  in a  whisper--his
comforter left several explanations in the  air. "Then he killed  her," said
Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly. "Who did?" "I have a way of finding
out." "You're morbid, George," said  his friend. "This has  been a strain to
you and you  don't know what you're saying. You'd  better try and sit  quiet
till morning." "He murdered her." "It was an accident, George." Wilson shook
his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of
a superior  "Hm!" "I  know," he said definitely,  "I'm one of these trusting
fellas and  I don't think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing
I  know it. It was the man in that car. She  ran out to  speak to him and he
wouldn't stop." Michaelis had seen this too, but  it  hadn't occurred to him
that there was any  special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson
had been  running away from her  husband, rather  than trying  to  stop  any
particular car. "How could she of been like that?"  "She's a deep one," said
Wilson, as if  that  answered the question.  "Ah-h-h----" He began  to  rock
again, and  Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his  hand.  "Maybe you got
some friend that I could telephone for, George?" This was a forlorn hope--he
was almost sure that Wilson had no friend:  there  was not enough of him for
his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a
blue quickening by  the window, and realized that dawn wasn't far off. About
five o'clock it  was blue enough  outside  to  snap off the  light. Wilson's
glazed  eyes  turned  out to the ashheaps,  where small gray clouds  took on
fantastic shape and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind. "I spoke
to her," he  muttered, after a long silence. "I  told her she might  fool me
but she couldn't fool God. I took her to the window."--with an effort he got
up  and  walked to the rear window and leaned with his face  pressed against
it----" and I said 'God knows what you've been doing, everything you've been
doing. You  may  fool  me, but you  can't fool God!'"  Standing behind  him,
Michaelis saw with a shock that  he was looking  at the eyes of Doctor T. J.
Eckleburg, which had just  emerged, pale  and  enormous, from the dissolving
night. "God  sees everything,"  repeated Wilson.  "That's an advertisement,"
Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn away from the window and look
back into the  room. But  Wilson stood  there a long time, his face close to
the window pane, nodding into the twilight.  By six  o'clock  Michaelis  was
worn  out,  and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside. It was one
of  the  watchers of the night before who had  promised to come back,  so he
cooked breakfast for three, which he and the  other man ate together. Wilson
was quieter now,  and Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours
later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone. His movements--he was
on foot  all  the time--were  afterward traced to Port Roosevelt and then to
Gad's  Hill, where  he bought  a sandwich that  he didn't eat,  and a cup of
coffee.  He  must have  been  tired and walking slowly,  for he didn't reach
Gad's  Hill until  noon.  Thus far there was no difficulty in accounting for
his time--there were boys who had seen a  man  "acting  sort of  crazy," and
motorists at whom he stared oddly from  the side of the road. Then for three
hours he disappeared from view. The  police, on the strength of what he said
to Michaelis, that he "had a  way of finding  out," supposed  that he  spent
that  time going from garage  to garage thereabout, inquiring  for  a yellow
car. On the other  hand, no  garage man who had  seen him ever came forward,
and  perhaps he  had an  easier, surer way of finding  out what he wanted to
know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the way to
Gatsby's house. So by that time he knew Gatsby's name. At two o'clock Gatsby
put on his bathing-suit and left word with the butler that if any one phoned
word was to be brought