False to Any Man. Leslie Ford

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      “Karen!” I called. “Karen!”

      The lights from the little windows shone brightly still, but no longer gaily . . . like wide staring grimaces, utterly horrible. I dashed to the nearest one. Through the chinks in the Venetian blind I could see into the living room. Karen Lunt, still in her black velvet evening dress, the bright corn-colored curls still piled on top of her head, was sitting motionless in the cherry-red love seat.

      I banged at the window, and cried out desperately. She didn’t move. Then, almost beside myself, I searched frantically around on the snow-covered walk until I found a loose brick, pried it out, dashed back to the window, and then—I shall never forget that crash as long as I live—hurled it through the pane. A flood of gas poured out, choking me as I tried to get closer to tear down the blind.

      I vaguely realized that the lights were going on in the Doyle house across the street, and behind me in the Candlers’, as I scooped up a handful of snow, held it over my nose, reached through the broken glass and seized Karen by her black velvet shoulder. She swayed there for just an instant, toppled over and lay, quite inert in a huddle on the eggshell rug.

      My head reeled then, and I had just enough consciousness left to bury my face in the snow as I fell, and to hear voices all around me then and the crashing of window glass. The next thing I knew I was in Judge Candler’s study. And then for a brief instant I was alone, the smell of gas making a roller coaster of my stomach. I pulled myself together with a dreadful effort, reached for the telephone on Judge Candler’s desk, and whispered to the operator:

      “Get Colonel Primrose at District 0091 and tell him to come to Alexandria, to Judge Candler’s house, at once! Tell him Mrs. Latham wants him.”