She shot a look at the door, cleared her throat, licked her loose mouth again, and dropped on one knee beside my chair.
“I was coming home late Monday night—the night the boss was killed—and was standing in the shadows saying good night to my friend, when the boss came out of the house and walked down the street. And he had hardly got to the corner, when she— Mrs. Gilmore—came out, and went down the street after him. Not trying to catch up with him, you understand; but following him. What do you think of that?”
“What do you think of it?”
“ I think that she finally woke up to the fact that all of her Bernie’s dates didn’t have anything to do with the building business.”
“Do you know that they didn’t?”
“Do I know it? I knew that man! He liked ’em—liked ’em all.” She smiled into my face, a smile that suggested all evil. “I found that out soon after I first came here.”
“Do you know when Mrs. Gilmore came back that night—what time?”
“Yes,” she said; “at half-past three.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely! After I got undressed I got a blanket and sat at the head of the front stairs. My room’s in the rear of the top floor. I wanted to see if they came home together, and if there was a fight. After she came in alone I went back to my room, and it was just twenty-five minutes to four then. I looked at my alarm clock.”
“Did you see her when she came in?”