Four days after Sherry’s acquittal, Mrs. Ringgo was shown into my office.
She was in black. Her pretty, unintelligent, Oriental face was not placid. Worry was in it.
“Please, you won’t tell Dolph I have come here?” were the first words she spoke.
“Of course not, if you say not,” I promised and pulled a chair over for her.
She sat down and looked big-eyed at me, fidgeting with her gloves in her lap.
“He’s so reckless,” she said.
I nodded sympathetically, wondering what she was up to.
“And I’m so afraid,” she added, twisting her gloves. Her chin trembled. Her lips formed words jerkily: “They’ve come back to the bungalow.”
“Yeah?” I sat up straight. I knew who they were.
“They can’t,” she cried, “have come back for any reason except that they mean to murder Dolph as they did father. And he won’t listen to me. He’s so sure of himself. He laughs and calls me a foolish child, and tells me he can take care of himself. But he can’t. Not, at least, with a broken arm. And they’ll kill him as they killed father. I know it. I know it.”
“Sherry hates your husband as much as he hated your father?”
“Yes. That’s it. He does. Dolph was working for father, but Dolph’s part in the—the business that led up to Hugh’s trouble was more—more