Ken didn’t say anything. He went unsteadily to a chair, sat down, holding his head in his hands.
Adams looked at him, shrugged, and went quietly to the bedroom door, turned the handle and pushed open the door.
Gilda was standing in the middle of the room, her hands to her ears, her face drawn. When she saw him, she gave a sharp scream.
“It didn’t work,” Adams said. “You’re right out on your own now, sister. Come on. We’ll go down to headquarters and talk this thing out.”
Gilda backed away.
“The dog foxed him,” Adams went on, moving slowly towards her. “He hadn’t got the dog organized. I got him before he got me. Come on, sister, don’t play it the hard way.”
“Keep away from me!”
Her voice was a croak. Her face was ugly with terror.
“The jury will love your legs,” Adams said comfortingly. “You’ll only get twenty years. You’ll be out of all the misery that’s coming when they drop the H-bomb. You don’t know it yet, but you’re a lucky girl.”
Gilda turned and ran. She took five swift steps before she reached the big, curtained window. She didn’t stop. She went through the curtains, through the glass and out of the window.