most inaudible whimper of Martia's. She had stood in the doorway of the living-room, hat and coat still on, staring in alarm and concern at Opper.
"George! I got your wire. Luckily not a soul saw me get in. What on earth has happened? What trouble are you in? The bank? Funds gone? What is it?"
He had said nothing, and slowly, as she stared at him, the color had drained from her face. Drop by drop it had seemed to recede, leaving her skin like blue snow. She had read his intention in his eyes as clearly as if he had shouted it at her. He had expected her to try to scream. He had been ready to whip the silenced gun from behind him and cut off the betraying scream before it could get started.
But she hadn't screamed. And she hadn't moved. She had simply stood there in the doorway, swaying a bit, eyes wide—while from her blanched lips came the small, almost inaudible whimper.
Just that little whimper, like a distillation of all the screams for help and mercy human beings have given into the quivering air since time began. It had made his blood run cold, that odd little whimper.
He couldn't figure out even now how he had summoned strength to raise the gun and fire it with the animal-like whimper seeping against his eardrums and with Martia's wide, glazed eyes staring at him. But he had.
"And I'd do it again," he said suddenly, aloud. "The stakes are worth it."
The stakes—Lois Blye.
Lois was as lovely as—as hell itself—with her amber eyes and her sinuous body. Lois seemed to think a great deal of the heavily good-looking assistant cashier of the Nortown Bank. And Lois was wealthy. Marriage to her would relieve George of the bank work he hated—of all work, for that matter, if he wished. . . .
He cursed in a shrill whisper, and kicked out at the cat again. It leaped from its mistress' dead body, and this time fled from the room as Opper jumped after it. One bloody paw-mark was left on the bare floor. . . .
"The thing will hang me yet!" he whispered, moistening dry lips with his tongue while he wiped away the damning mark. "Wandering around the neighborhood with blood on it"
But he shrugged as he remembered how cats clean themselves. In a little while the animal would have licked from its paw any of the blood it might have touched from the small clean hole in Martia's breast. If some remained—it would not be too serious. Cats are always digging into things, or killing mice. Blood would be explainable.
He approached the body on the blanket once more. He must get away quickly.
He was supposed to be five hundred miles from here, starting his two weeks' vacation. He mustn't risk being seen here at home.
He wrapped around the still figure the blanket which had kept all blood from the floor, compressing the thing as much as he could, moving with great care lest he get a spot of blood on clothes or shoes. Then, shivering, he picked up the bundle and walked to the side door of the living-room. He snapped out the lights so that no illuminated doorway could reveal him when he opened the door. He went out to his sedan, parked without lights in the side entrance where trees and bushes screened it utterly from the sight of his nearest neighbor—should that neigh-
