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Updated: May 1, 2025
This, then, was the situation: inside, these two fugitives, watchful, silent, their eyes red-rimmed for lack of sleep, their nerves raw and tingling as though rasped with files, each busy with certain private plans, each fighting off constantly the touch of the nasty scavenger flies that flickered and flitted iridescently about them; outside, in the steamy, hot drizzle, with his back to the locked and double-locked door, a leg-weary policeman, believing that he guarded a house all empty except for such evidences as yet remained of the Gilmorris murder.
Everywhere detectives amateurs and the kind who work for hire were seeking the pair who at this precise moment faced each other across a little center-table in the last place any searcher would have suspected or expected them to be on the second floor of the house in which the late Cassius Gilmorris had been killed.
For this was Ella Gilmorris, the woman in the case of the Gilmorris murder, about which the continent of North America was now reading and talking.
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