Forrester lay with his head against the sharp edge of one of the legs of
the couch, as though he had rolled off and struck against it.
Opposite the desk, across the room, was the door leading into the
second room of the little apartment. Jimmie Dale moved toward this now,
and stepped across the threshold. The room itself was unlighted, but
there was light enough from the connecting doorway to enable him to see
fairly well. It was Forrester's bedroom, and in no way appeared to have
been disturbed. He remembered it quite well. There was a door here,
too, that gave on the hall. He circled around the bed and reached the
door. It was locked.
Jimmie Dale returned to the living room--and stood there in a sort of
grim immobility, looking down at the form on the floor. He was not
callous. Death, as often as he had seen it, and in its most tragic
phases, had not made him callous, and he had liked Forrester--but
suicide was not a man's way out, it was the way a coward took, and if it
brought pity, it was the pity that was blunted with the sterner, almost
contemptuous note of disapproval. What had happened since Forrester had
'phoned, that had driven the man to this extremity? When Forrester had
'phoned he had appeared to be agitated enough, but, at least, he had
seemed to have had hopes that the appeal he was then making might see
him through, and, as proof of that, there had been unmistakable relief
in the man's voice when he, Jimmie Dale, had agreed to the other's
request.
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