Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. ” “The inference is, then,” the detective said smoothly, “that this man obtained admission to your rooms by means of a false key, that he burnt some papers here and shot himself within a few moments of your return. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings.
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