“Just the top of her head and shoulders when she turned toward her room at the landing.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Lina Best.”
“All right, Lina,” I told her. “If this is the goods I’ll see that you collect on it. Keep your eyes open, and if anything else turns up you can get in touch with me at the Continental office. Now you’d better beat it, so nobody will know we’ve had our heads together.”
Alone in the library, I cocked an eye at the ceiling and considered the information Lina Best had given me. But I soon gave that up—no use trying to guess at things that will work out for themselves in a while. I found a book, and spent the next half-hour reading about a sweet young she-chump and a big strong he-chump and all their troubles.
Then Mrs. Gilmore came in, apparently straight from the street.
I got up and closed the doors behind her, while she watched me with wide eyes.
“ Mrs. Gilmore,” I said, when I faced her again, “why didn’t you tell me that you followed your husband the night he was killed?”
“That’s a lie!” she cried; but there was no truth in her voice. “That’s a lie!”
“Don’t you think you’re making a mistake?” I urged. “Don’t you think you’d better tell me the whole thing?”
She opened her mouth, but only a dry sobbing sound came out; and she began to sway with a hysterical rocking motion, the fingers of a one black-gloved hand plucking at her lower lip, twisting and pulling it.