Rob was sitting there talking—wearily, tired from that long and dreadful strain—but Rob. Rob, no longer charged with murder. Rob, no longer faced with that thing they had faced.
Gally was full of questions, ranging lankily up and down the room, thrusting his fingers through his hair—talking, talking. Talking of things that seemed so trivial now, such as the key to the french door—“He could have taken it at any time, weeks ago”—and Ivan’s flannel coat—“I’ll bet he was scared, knew somebody was in the room, grabbed for whoever it was and got the coat and it just slipped off Marcia’s shoulders. Wonder what he did with it. I know what I’d do, and that’s lose it—burn it—and kick myself for being so excited that I carried it off. Or maybe he carried it away to discover who’d been in the room. It must have puzzled him when it turned out to be Ivan’s. And I’m convinced,” said Gally, “that it was a little bit of gauze I picked off the rug in front of Ivan. Convinced of it—but I wish I’d thought of it sooner.”
He paused rather wistfully but very briefly.
“They’ll convict him somehow,” he cried excitedly. “There’s evidence enough. A lot of it’s circumstantial, but a lot of it’s—what do you call it?—anyway, it’s as plain as the nose on your face once you put everything together. He’ll confess. What’ll you bet he confesses? He’ll confess—or maybe,” he said, struck by the thought and stopping in his headlong pace to stare at Rob—“maybe he’ll commit suicide. That’s more likely. It’s too convincing evidence for him to hope to evade—”
Rob got up suddenly and said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Gally!” and turned to Marcia. “Let’s go—let’s go,” he said.
He opened the french doors, and they stood there a moment. The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared and a thin, watery moon was riding high.
Rob drew her out into the night.
“Let’s leave this house,” he said. “Forever.”
“Forever,” said Marcia. He took her hand, and they went together, needing each other, through the wet darkness. At the garden wall he stopped and took her in his arms, and the moonlight made a shadow of them against the wall.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1935, 1936 by Mignon G. Eberhart
cover design by Heidi North
978-1-4532-5726-5
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
Copyright
Fair Warning Page 25