“Yes. Who is it?”
“Tucker.... Say, the mob’s burned Lakeside Hotel. They’ve got Peewee.... Burned her up slick and clean—and everythin’ in it. The whole shipment’s gone....”
Fownes dropped the receiver and sank nerveless into a chair. At any rate, he was ruined. That much was certain. Nothing remained to fight for now but his personal security, his liberty. He snatched up his bag and moved toward the door.... His plan was not clear—only the first step of it. He would rent an automobile and drive out of town with what speed was possible.... As he reached the door he realized with a sudden sharp pang that he was leaving his house for good, leaving Gibeon forever. He, Abner Fownes, first citizen, man of substance, was fleeing from his native place like the commonest criminal.
Dazedly he wondered how it had come about ... somehow, he felt, that girl was at the bottom of the thing. His misfortunes were due to her meddling. He wished he could get his fingers upon her throat.
He descended the steps and walked toward the street. The night was dark, dark enough to conceal his movements, perhaps to avert recognition.... A certain confidence came to him. He would get away; he would possess liberty and his intelligence which had served him so well.... There were other places—and he was not old. Perhaps....
As he turned out upon the street a figure confronted him. He halted, drew back.
“Abner Fownes,” said a voice, “where are you going?”
“You!... You!...” he said, hoarsely. His fingers twitched, fury burned in his heart, and the desire to slay. He looked about him. All was blackness.... Here she was, this girl who was sending him crashing down in ruin....
“He is dead,” said Carmel. “You are a murderer again. Abner Fownes.... You’re running away.”
“Out of my way, you—you——”