“And when you found that Thursby didn’t mean to tackle him you borrowed the gun and did it yourself. Right?”
“Yes—though not exactly.”
“But exact enough. And you had that plan up your sleeve from the first. You thought Floyd would be nailed for the killing.”
“I—I thought they’d hold him at least until after Captain Jacobi had arrived with the falcon and—”
“And you didn’t know then that Gutman was here hunting for you. You didn’t suspect that or you wouldn’t have shaken your gunman. You knew Gutman was here as soon as you heard Thursby had been shot. Then you knew you needed another protector, so you came back to me. Right?”
“Yes, but—oh, sweetheart!—it wasn’t only that. I would have come back to you sooner or later. From the first instant I saw you I knew—”
Spade said tenderly: “You angel! Well, if you get a good break you’ll be out of San Quentin in twenty years and you can come back to me then.”
She took her cheek away from his, drawing her head far back to stare up without comprehension at him.
He was pale. He said tenderly: “I hope to Christ they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.” He slid his hands up to caress her throat.
In an instant she was out of his arms, back against the table, crouching, both hands spread over her throat. Her face was wild-eyed, haggard. Her dry mouth opened and closed. She said in a small parched voice: “You’re not—” She could get no other words out.
Spade’s face was yellow-white now. His mouth smiled and there were smile-wrinkles around his glittering eyes. His voice was soft, gentle. He