Cutting stood an instant as though frozen, and then mechanically stepped back. We all walked in. The door was closed.
“‘Swallow,’” said the Chief, “you’re through. We’ve got Harrigan with the goods. Where’s the rest of the loot? I mean outside the Robbins stuff. We’ve got that located.”
Cutting’s head dropped to his hands. He sat in silence, bowed.
“Donald, what is it? Is there any trouble?” A woman’s voice came over the balustrade. He straightened up, as though an electric current had shot through him.
“Nothing, Molly,” he said. “Just some old friends dropped in on me. I will be at liberty soon.”
“Your wife?” asked Leslie. “My wife,” replied Cutting.
In another moment she was sweeping from the broad stairway in a silken kimono, her hair flowing loosely, and stood before us.
Cutting looked directly at her, and in her eyes there was a light of questioning. “I must leave you, Molly,” he said. Still looking at him in that singular way, she asked: “For how long?”
“It is not in my power to say. These men are police officers. They knew me from the east. They want me to go down to the jail with them.”
“Will you be there long?”