Godfrey’s face hardened as he turned to the janitor, who had regained his breath and stood staring on the threshold.
“My friend,” he said, “shut the door”
He stopped as he heard the tramp of heavy feet approaching along the corridor.
“Wait,” said Simmonds. “There come my men. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Godfrey nodded curtly, and waited until Simmonds closed the door after him.
“Now, Miss Croydon,” he said, “tell me quickly how it happened. I can’t help you unless I know the whole story, and I want to help you.”
The gentleness of his voice, the quiet assurance of his manner, the encouraging glance, combined to calm and strengthen her. She sat up, with an effort of self-control, and clasped her hands together in her lap.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she began, striving to speak steadily. “I came here to—to keep an appointment” She stopped, her voice dying away, unable to go on.
“With this man?” asked Godfrey. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” and she cast a horrified glance at the huddled form. “I never saw him before.”
“Then it wasn’t he you came here to meet?”
“No—that is—it may have been” And again she stopped.
“Miss Croydon,” said Godfrey, gently yet clearly, “I can’t help you unless you’re quite frank with me, and I fear you are going to stand in need of help. Did you kill this man?”
