One of the two rooms, whose doors he saw between this end room
and the door opening into the store, must be hers, and if she were
there, asleep, for instance, his ear was surely acute enough to catch,
in the stillness that lay upon the house, the sound of breathing. But
there was nothing. Under the mask, his brows drew together in a
perplexed frown. And then suddenly he stood rigid, tense. Yes, there was
a sound at last--and an ominous one! The front door leading into the
store was being opened, came the scuffling of footsteps--and then a
woman's voice, shrill, wailing:
"W'en I come in not twenty minutes ago dere he was--dead. My
Gawd--knifed he was! An' den I runs fer youse at de station. I gotta
right ter cry, ain't I! He's my son, he is--ain't he! I gotta
right--"
"Keep quiet!" snapped a man's voice gruffly. "We've heard all that a
dozen times now. It's a pity you didn't think more about being his
mother twenty years ago! Mike, you'd better lock that front door!"
Jimmie Dale drew back, and closed the door softly. If he were caught
here now! The old woman had brought the police back with her--two of
them, it appeared. He smiled in a hard way.
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