“An’ they told you over the telephone he was dyin’?” he demanded, looking at Jinnie.
“Yes,” gulped Jinnie, “and Maudlin’s dead. The hospital people say Mr. King can’t live.” The last words were stammered and scarcely audible. “Lafe, who shot him?”
“I dunno,” said Lafe.
“Didn’t you see who had the gun?” persisted the girl, wiping her eyes.
“Mr. King didn’t have it; nuther did Maudlin. It came from over there, an’ I heard a car drive away right after.”
Jinnie shook her head hopelessly. It was all so mysterious that her heart was gripped with fright. A short time before, an officer had been there cross-questioning Lafe suspiciously. Then he had gone away with the 243 pistol in his pocket. She stared out of the window, fear-shadowed. In a twinkling her whole love world had tumbled about her ears, and she listened as the cobbler told her once more the story of the hour she’d been away with Bobbie.
“There’re two men coming here right now,” she said suddenly, getting up. “Lafe, there’s Burns, the cop on this beat.”
“They’re wantin’ to find out more, I presume,” replied Lafe wearily.
As the men entered the shop, Jinnie backed away and stood with rigid muscles. She was dizzily frightened at the sight of the gruff officers, who had not even saluted Lafe.
The foremost man was a stranger to them both.