out alone, or if that woman came out. I had a right to do it—he had deceived me before.
“It was terrible, horrible—crouching there in the dark—cold and scared. Then—it must have been about half-past two—I couldn’t stand it any longer. I decided to telephone the woman’s apartment and find out if she were home. I went down to an all-night lunchroom on Ellis Street and called her up.”
“Was she home?”
“No! I tried for fifteen minutes, or maybe longer, but nobody answered the phone. So I knew she was in that Pine Street building.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I went back there, determined to wait until he came out. I walked up Jones Street. When I was between Bush and Pine I heard a shot. I thought it was a noise made by an automobile then, but now I know that it was the shot that killed Bernie.
“When I reached the corner of Pine and Jones, I could see a policeman bending over Bernie on the sidewalk, and I saw people gathering around. I didn’t know then that it was Bernie lying on the sidewalk. In the dark and at that distance I couldn’t even see whether it was a man or a woman.
“I was afraid that Bernard would come out to see what was going on, or look out of a window, and discover me; so I didn’t go down that way. I was afraid to stay in the neighborhood now, for fear the police would ask me what I was doing loitering in the street at three in the morning—and have it come out that I had been following my husband. So I kept on walking up Jones Street, to California, and then straight home.”
“And then what?” I led her on.