"I'm Rawlins, sir. I worked for the poor lady, Mrs. Selim—gardening one day a week—"
"Come to my office!" Sanderson commanded quickly, as a lingering reporter approached on a run.... "No, no! I'm sorry, Harper," he said hastily, cutting into the reporter's questions. "Nothing new! You may say that the police have thrown out a dragnet—" and he grinned at the trite phrase "—for the gunman who killed Mrs. Selim, and will offer a reward for the recovery of the weapon—a Colt's .32 equipped with a Maxim silencer.... Come along, George, and I'll explain just what Mrs. Sanderson and I have in mind."
The district attorney and Dundee strode quickly away, and the man, Rawlins, after a moment of indecision, trotted after them.
"I don't understand, sir, and my name ain't George. It's Elmer."
"You don't have to understand anything, except that you're not to answer any question that any reporter asks you," Sanderson retorted.
When the trio entered the reception room of the district attorney's suite in the courthouse Sanderson paused at Penny Crain's desk:
"Bring in your notebook, Penny. This man has some information he considers important."
A minute later Sanderson had begun to question his voluntary but highly nervous witness.
"Your name?"
"It's Elmer Rawlins, like I told you, sir," the man protested, and flinched as Penny recorded his words in swift shorthand. "It was my wife as made me come. She said as long as me and her knowed I didn't do nothing wrong, I'd oughta come forward and tell what I knowed."