hall—an’, anyway, they ain’t no place anybody could hide.”
“He might have gone into one of the other rooms, mightn’t he?”
“They was all locked—I’m certain o’ that.”
Godfrey took a thoughtful puff or two.
“It was th’ girl shot him—y’ kin bank on that,” added Higgins, with emphasis.
“But then,” objected Godfrey, “you said the report you heard couldn’t have come from her pistol.”
Higgins gasped and choked, staring wide-eyed.
“Why, that’s so!” he cried. “That’s so! I never thought o’ that! Mebbe there is a damn scoundrel hidin’ ’round here some’rs,” and he glanced excitedly up and down the hall.
“The police will find him if there is,” said Godfrey reassuringly. “What happened after you reached the room?”
“Well,” continued Higgins, quieting down a little, but still keeping one eye over his shoulder, “as I was sayin’, I throwed open th’ door, an’ there was th’ girl leanin’ agin th’ wall an’ Thompson on th’ floor with a big blood-spot on his shirt-front. I jest give one look at ’em an’ then I went down th’ steps three at a time an’ over t’ th’ station. I tell you, it purty nigh done me up.”
He was interrupted by a tramp of feet that came down the stairs. It was Simmonds and the coroner, closely attended by the crowd of reporters, who immediately surrounded Godfrey, in threatening admiration.
