He cowered, trying to cover his face with his shaking hands, but the other’s eyes held him.
“You killed her with—this!” George suddenly produced the driver, and Storm shrank away in horror.
“No, no! For God’s sake, George!”
“You killed Jack Horton!” The inexorable voice went on. “His money is here in this valise at my feet. You would have killed me, too, up there in the woods, but I beat you to it!”
Great beads of sweat glistened upon Storm’s brow and rolled like tears down his gray, pinched face as he made a terrified, ineffectual attempt to deny; but the other cut him short.
“I’ve got you, you can’t get away, and they’re coming for you, do you understand? They’re on their way!—Sure, smoke if you want to!”
The hunted eyes had turned instinctively toward the cigarettes on the stand, and Storm lighted one feebly. Its tip glowed crimson, then dulled as the surface became filmed with ashes.
George smiled grimly as a swift memory came to him.
“You owe Millard fifty dollars!”
A dull, sodden look came over Storm’s face, and his body slumped as though slowly disintegrating before the other’s eyes. As he fell back the scream of an approaching siren cut the stillness, and the ashes from the cigarette fell in a soft, crumbling mass upon his breast.